Breaking Badly
by Maud Greyluck
Summary: In the aftermath of one of his most brutal drug binges up to date, Sherlock tries his best to put himself together as much as he wants to put his best friend together. In the aftermath of nearly beating his best friend to death, John tries his best to make up for being a sad excuse of a best friend and even sadder excuse of a father. Then one of Mycroft's best-kept secret... SH/JW
1. Chapter 1

**Breaking Badly**

**Pairings:** Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, (past) Mary Morstan/John Watson

**Summary:**

Hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which says, 'Hold on!' ~Rudyard Kipling

In the aftermath of one of his most brutal drug binges up to date, Sherlock tries his best to put himself together as much as he wants to put his best friend together. In the aftermath of nearly beating his best friend to death, John tries his best to make up for being a sad excuse of a best friend and even sadder excuse of a father (although the jury is still out on which was actually the worse one). Then one of Mycroft's best-kept secrets come into the light and nothing is going to be the same for either of them anymore.

**Author's notes:**

On the title: I know that it's American slang but the more I read into its meaning the more realised how much it fit with what I was planning. It's a better title than the working title which was simply 'Hold On'.

There are many TFP theories out there, in fact, there are many season 4 theories and what it really was and while I find each of them interesting I wanted to try a different approach. In here TFP is nothing but a nightmare, an enlightening one but still a nightmare.

As for Euros... This story operates on a principle that Euros Holmes once existed but her existence isn't the cause of all their problems. If anything is anyone's fault at all then surely it's Mycroft's inability to share important things with concerned parties. Additionally, I played with Euros's age because I realised that the only way for Sherlock to forget ever having a sister was not having many memories of her in the first place.

We pull a plug from canon right after the boys leave to get Sherlock's birthday cake and rejoin them two days later on a very early morning of what turns out to be a hell of a day.

* * *

_Hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which says, 'Hold on!'_

_Rudyard Kipling_

**Breaking Badly**

**Sherlock **

He wakes up slowly. It's not one of those days when awareness of his surroundings comes quickly to him. Still, the first thing he registers is that he's tangled in the duvet as if he spent his night at wrestling with it rather than sleeping. Probably, he had. Everyone would.

He remembers the dream vividly as he stares at the familiar wallpaper. It started from finding the note that Faith Smith left behind and spiralled from there into some bondesque nightmare that kept getting worse and worse the longer it went on.

Secret government prison full of uncontainable psychopaths with his own secret sister at the helm. And said sister not only got to be an era defining genius but she also had to be… that. Like he needs to be reminded by his subconsciousness that John is straight and he would only flirt with him if he was a woman. So obviously he dreamed up that the faceless woman with whom John got into an emotional affair turned out to be… well, the worst version of himself in a female form.

And because his perception is still slightly skewered his subconscious mind decided that well, Sherlock Holmes you're dealing with all of this right now. Hence Redbeard, hence the whole thing with Molly and pretty much everything going from bad to worse.

Mindful of the baby monitor under the bed (which he knows about and just ignores) he sits up on the bed very slowly and leans against the headboard. It's Hudders turn to keep an eye on him this morning. In fact every morning since he returned home from the hospital three days ago and he doesn't want to rouse her too early. She can be really cranky before she has a first cup of a tea so strong that it could potentially raise the dead and he isn't technically at the risk of relapsing.

Well, he knows that and the rest… Out of all people involved into minding him during his recovery at home only Lestrade actually saw him going through withdrawal and detoxing after an extended binge so he's a very lax if slightly cautious minder. John saw him and kept him occupied after the aborted exile but that wasn't a binge just a meticulously planned suicide attempt via overdose and prior to that incident cocaine and heroin was replaced by morphine and he spent majority of the detox either knocked out or planning how to expose Mary.

This time around he spent the worst of it at the hospital cautiously monitored for kidney failure amongst the other things. Physically he isn't as strong as he would like to be but the worst symptoms wore off, his kidneys didn't fail and his ribs while still bruised are getting better. He misses smoking though but he manages.

But if agreeing to being essentially baby-sited is the only way to salvage his relationship with John then he will consent to being monitored for as long as it takes.

His relationship with John is still on a very shaky ground and he knows the cost of another relapse. He knew the dangers of following through with the plan to binge and he accepted the price he would have to pay for it.

Even now what keeps John around is the misplaced feeling of guilt for not seeing the signs and not stopping Sherlock from shooting up and then completely losing it in the morgue.

John is better but he still isn't fine. He started sleeping though which is a success, as were poorly disguised stains from baby food which he attempted to hide by rolling up his sleeves. From Molly he knows that Rosie is home with John for the nights and better part of the day now and rather than being handed over for extended periods of time to various sitters there are sitters that come to the flat when John is at work or at Baker Street.

The easiest on John would be bringing Rosie to Baker Street but getting there will take a very long time if it will happen at all. Sherlock isn't his top priority anymore and if John will decide that Sherlock isn't someone who can be trusted again to keep him around his daughter then he will eventually walk away.

It would break his heart in a way John's and Mary's wedding had failed to do so but as much as it pains him it's a price he's willing to pay for keeping John from falling into downward spiral of depression and alcoholism. But just because he's willing to pay it doesn't mean that he will give up without a fight.

So he will do his damnest best to stay sober from now on no matter how hard at times he itches to devise a way to summon Wiggins to him in order to get him something that would abate the itch. He will ignore the hallucinations and their mysteries and will remain clean. For John.

Maybe once he's deemed as healthy enough to leave the flat and stable enough to not require a minder he would go to John's and Mary's flat. Help with Rosie, bring a gift, maybe convince John to let him accompany them to a park. Rosie is at the age when babies actually get interesting by being interested in the world around them. It could be fun and it might help hon her aim by directing it at smaller targets, such as ducks.

Baby steps.

But there's still something about that dream that doesn't sit well with him for some reason. Something about Redbeard and Daddy's allergy to dogs. It has to be a lie, an obstacle his mind presented to make the nightmare worse.

Except…

Except, when he searches his mind for memories of Dad around dogs something comes up. It was prior to storming on Appledore. Per Mummy's request one of Mycroft's cars picked him from Baker Street two days before Christmas. Nothing interesting happened on the first day but on Christmas Eve he accompanied Daddy along with one of Mummy's cakes to Mr Allen, a somewhat recluse beekeeper who occasionally supplied the village stores with his own honey.

Daddy knew that he wouldn't be able to resist the lure of bees, just like he couldn't resist the lure of Mr Allen's border collies, a pair of the lousiest guard dogs in Sussex but excellent cuddlers. At the time he was so focused on what might eventually happen that he simply didn't pay too much attention to neither Mr Allen nor Daddy. No, back then all that mattered was the peaceful sight of hives and the feel of soft fur under his fingers and Magnussen.

And Daddy's sneezes, red eyes, slight troubles with breathing? At the time he wrote it off as the probable beginning of a seasonal cold that Mummy would and had dealt with even before John arrived.

Red eyes, sneezing, runny nose, slight trouble with breathing. Clear sings of allergy.

_We never had a dog._

But Redbeard? Redbeard was real. Redbeard felt real. He remembered the feeling of his fur under his hands, the way his fur smelt and the warmth he emitted.

_We never had a dog._

Then whose dog was it?

Because there was a dog. He remembers an Irish setter. Patient but also eager companion of various make believes which at the time more often than not were pirates.

The dog was real.

But so could have been Daddy's allergy.

So which one is it?

He tries to summon the image of Redbeard as a puppy because the dog in his memories is a grown one but not an old one. Sure Irish Setters as a breed could live up to fifteen years but nothing about Redbeard felt or looked old. He was always eager, playful, full of energy. That's not an old dog.

He has no memory of a puppy.

But there are other memories.

Playing in the forest. Probably with Daddy, definitely not with Mycroft because up until Mycroft went to university and managed to lose some weight he was never able to keep up with Sherlock's speed and whoever it was, they could.

The sound of a dog barking somewhere ahead.

He could never resist that sound and adored every dog that crossed his path. He could never resist petting one either if he was allowed. He always loved dogs of any kind and they mostly loved him back. Well, with the exception of dachshunds, they always hated his guts and his feelings towards them at their most considerate were ambivalent at best if not equally spiteful. Height challenged sausages with anger issues every single one of them.

Then comes a memory of the small clearing in the forest. Green grass around him and trees in the distance. Redbeard running towards him. Someone calling him by that name. Being tackled to the ground by an exuberant dog that proceeds to thoroughly lick his face. Someone calling Redbeard and the voice… it's not a voice of a grown up and through the years he always assumed that it was his own.

Someone pulls him up from the ground just as Redbeard turns around and starts running towards the voice. He can't hear even a single sneeze. Then someone hoists him even higher and over the dog's retreating form he can see a boy running towards them.

Strawberry blonde hair. Brownish eyes. He even has the same bandana like in the dream.

Victor. Was he real?

Before his eyes the memory plays on. Victor's grin, quite polite introduction for a prepubescent boy his age away from watchful eyes of the adults. And Sherlock answering.

But Sherlock is not the name that comes from his mouth.

It's Billy, Billy Holmes.

Billy Holm. He could practically hear his own voice, much older than back then but now it's not a time to go down that road. He stays with the earlier memory.

Billy. Not William, not Will, not Willy and under no circumstances Liam. Just Billy.

Billy.

If he concentrates hard enough Billy is a name he remembers being called almost interchangeably with Sherry. He has no memory of every being called Sherlock as a young child if Sherlock wasn't bracketed by William and Scott and followed with Holmes. Not that it happened often enough.

Or maybe it had.

Once he allows his mind to acknowledge the image of Victor more memories start to trickle in. Pebbled beach, a stream in the forest. Victor and Redbeard are both there.

Turning his head over his shoulder to watch Victor's retreating back and Redbeard accompanying him.

Someone touching his shoulder and saying, "Come on, Billy, you will see them tomorrow."

Male voice. Not Mycroft's. Probably not Daddy's too if the allergy is true. Probably a teacher.

No. That happened later. He was home-schooled for a while after he returned from the hospital and he has a memory of blowing eight candles in hospital bed.

Why was he at the hospital in the first place? It was an extended stay that dragged for months on end. Car accident? The one in which Redbeard died? He doesn't remember early days of his stay but he remembers casts. Both arms, both legs, being in lots of pain, pins and needles and the overwhelming boredom that never fully went away. Ugly pictures of bears on the walls. Surgeries. Mummy saying that there was an accident…

Come to think about it she never clarified what sort of accident it was and if she had he has no memory of it. He assumed that it was a car accident and that Redbeard died in it because Mummy got very sad when he managed to utter his name.

_You were upset so you told yourself a better story._

That dream isn't real, it's too ridiculous to be real. Or can it be? Maybe not entirely but in certain parts…

Dad's allergy seemed real enough once he concentrated on it and once he focused on Redbeard as a dog that might have not been his he summoned the image of Victor.

What if the fire too was real?

He has no memory of the house in Sussex prior to leaving the hospital. A modest house with four bedrooms. Smaller and properly fenced garden than the one from the dream.

Then there are pictures from the photo albums. Sparse images from before hospital and far more from after. Mummy was always crazy about taking pictures. It stands to reason that there would have been a similar amount of older pictures of him and Mycroft from before the hospital.

A house fire could have destroyed pictures. Some permanently, some perhaps were copies that got recovered from various relatives.

And got edited too, some treacherous voice from the back of his mind supplies.

A fire would also explain the extended hospital stay. He could have gotten his injuries from a car accident as much as he could have gotten them from falling out of a window. Not too high though, first storey one maybe? And he would have to be thrown out of it, quite forcibly on that because if he jumped himself he wouldn't have gotten as badly injured as he had. Granted he could have broken an arm or leg or both but not all of them.

How did the fire start if it occurred at all?

Why he even bothers with examining this?

Because you can't resist a puzzle and a lot of things about that dream doesn't sit well with what you remember, a voice that sounds very much like John supplies softly.

And psychopathic pyromaniac sister locked up in a secret government prison explains it all?

How can you be sure that she doesn't exist?

Because I would have remembered having a sister.

Like you're remembering Daddy's allergy to dogs and him not sneezing around one. Baskerville, Norbury, stop being cocky and start thinking. In so far the only proof that you didn't have a sister is the lack of photographs of one from before the hospital. Did it occur to you that you could have had a sister and that she could have lost her life in a house fire you're willing to consider as real?

That wouldn't explain the lack of memories and photographs of her nor a the lack of even a single mention of her.

Not a single one? What about the east wind? And then there's your aversion to Rosie's name. You use it sparsely and given a choice you always address her or refer to her as Watson. If you went by Billy through quite a big part of your childhood then what kind of a nickname a girl called Euros could have gotten?

Rose.

Rose. Rosamund. Rosemary. Rosalie. A rose under a different name was still a rose even though rosemary was a completely different plant but as a name they all could be shortened to Rose.

Like he told Molly he deleted John's text with the choice of the name without reading it. Not because he didn't care but because he was convinced that John would be able to convince Mary to name the little girl Catherine or Katherine whichever one of them he preferred and since he already knew John's choice why should he bother.

But the sound of that name jarred him from his thoughts and his case during the christening. It wasn't as if a part of him didn't expect Mary to try and get an upper hand in naming baby Watson because he had. He just assumed that Mary loved John enough to be willing to compromise enough to allow John's chosen name to be one of the two which Watson got.

But that wasn't what happened.

At first, he assumed that he didn't like the name because Mary completely disregarded John's choice. So, in a low key spiteful retaliation for that he came up with a solution that allowed him to disregard Mary's choices for the name and he went with Watson.

Watson and I are going to test her aim. Watson and I are going to test her peripheral vision. Watson and I are going to change her nappy and this time were going to survive the ordeal with our dignity intact. Watson and I are going to take a kip at the sofa.

Not that his disregard for Mary's choices of the names registered with Mary because apparently Rosie won all the awards for being the fussiest infant on the planet. She had little to no regard to bed time routines, completely ignored the feeding schedule and defecated at the worst possible times and in the worst possible manner.

She managed to quiet down though by the time John temporarily moved in with her to Baker Street while he and John were waiting for Mary's tracker to settle down in one country for more than a day.

But the name still jarred so Watson she remained to him.

That was the thing that will have to change. Regardless of John not having a part in naming her she was still his daughter and he called her Rosie. He might not be a fan of the name but he will respect John's choice like he tried his best to do so since he returned.

I wonder why, John's voice presses.

Why what?

Why aren't you a fan of that name I mean. You're pretty ambivalent about other peoples' names in general if you bother to remember them at all if that information isn't somehow related to a current case. I should be grateful that you remember my name at all.

Of course I remember it and the other ones too…

Lestrade.

Lestrade knows very well why I call him anything but not Greg. It's a game we had been playing ever since Mycroft got his claws into him all these years ago.

Well, Greg aside let's come back to your issues with Rosie.

It's jarring.

And that's one of the mysteries. Why it jars you? You have no cousins with that name. The only Rose you went to primary school with was that timid little girl with whom you rarely crossed paths. Then you went to boys only boarding school and even during coeducational projects with that girls only school you never ran into a Rose. Then there was no offending Roses during that year and by the time you went to university you didn't care about any girls at all if they didn't have something interesting to share with you. There were no offending clients by that name either until Mary but you didn't know that she went by Rosamund until after Rosie's christening. So why it jars you?

Why not? Hammish annoys the living daylight out of you.

Because I hate it and it's my bloody middle name. It's mine to hate and Rose isn't your name to hate.

You're suggesting that I don't like the name Rose because my brain subconsciously connotates that name with a sister I cannot remember, who might be nothing but a product of my overactive imagination.

You have a better reason?

Mary.

You didn't know that Rosamund was one of the names Mary went by before Rosie's christening. You don't even know how many other names she went by. Mycroft was suspiciously tight-lipped on the subject and as far as you managed to establish Rosamund was with A.G.R.A. only for a couple of years. What kind of a name she went by before that? You don't know that, just like you don't know what was her actual birthname.

And that makes a figment of my imagination probable?

I didn't say probable. I just wouldn't exclude a sister you cannot remember as a possibility. There are many rational explanations why you wouldn't be able to remember ever having a sister.

Like putting my childhood best friend in a well and then burning the house down?

She didn't necessarily have to do that you know.

You're making no sense at all.

Because you're willing to accept that certain parts of that dream could happen let's assume that the key actors in that dream at one point or another existed. That they are real. Euros is real. Victor is real. Redbeard is real.

Then why I couldn't remember them or still cannot remember them.

Remember Henry Knight?

Childhood trauma masked by invented memory and just not one of them but…

… several? That's got to be some pretty traumatic memory. Or a few of them.

Ridiculous.

Keep an open mind because that's what got you into this mess and it might be what will get you out of it. The moment you allowed yourself to believe that your dad was allergic to dogs and that Redbeard might not have been your dog you saw Victor. Seeing him provided some memories of him, him and Redbeard together. Is it ridiculous to consider that something bad might have happened to him? I'm not saying that your secret psychopathic pyromaniac sister from your dream lured him into a well and left him there but…

A lot of bad things can happen to a child left unattended. Even as self-sufficient in finding their interests and things to do as first or second grader. Kidnappings, accidents, certain events that would require a sudden move…

To name a few. A loss of a friend, a best friend is a traumatic experience to anyone regardless of how it happened especially if the circumstances surrounding that loss were tragic. Like say taking a swan dive from the hospital's roof. Obviously, I'm not saying that Victor did that but like you said a lot of bad things can happen to a child left unattended. He could have been kidnapped, could have been ran over by a car… he could have even drowned in a bathtub. It happens. But right now the circumstances don't matter as long as you cannot verify them. What matters is that he was there and then he was not.

And that alone would have made me erase every single trace of him?

Not every single trace of him. You still got Redbeard.

Not exactly.

You're willing to consider the house fire as something that actually happened, even as something in which you got badly injured. To most children their house is their safe space and source of comfort that comes from their family. Losing that safe space at a young age can be pretty traumatic on its own. My guess that losing Victor and the house fire regardless of how it started occurred within a very short period of time. You were still grieving the loss of your friend when the fire happened and most likely you were injured when it happened. That's three traumas that occurred within a very close period of time. Each one of the is hard to overcome and make peace with when you're an adult let alone child.

And how Euros fits into that?

As another trauma obviously. In your dream she's a year younger than you and right now you don't have a way to verify that. Let's assume that's true or that she was younger than that. Your parents liked big age gaps, didn't they? Your mum had you when she was thirty-one and Mycroft when she was twenty-four, didn't she?

Yes.

Didn't you also say at some point when you were in hospital after Mary shot you that the only saving grace of being shot was that it prevented you from attending your parents' Golden Jubilee?

Yes.

So that means that they got married in what… late June or early July 1964 if my maths is correct? That also means that when they got married your mother was eighteen.

Yes. Your point?

It's a curious age gap, isn't it?

Why would it be?

Six years, then seven years and then who knows how many years between you and Euros.

Still…

It's not exactly normal, you know. The Holmeses were upper middle class, with some tittles attached to the male line and firstborn sons. Your mother was the youngest of four and it was traditional for women in the family to finish schooling before getting married even if they wanted to take a leaf out of your aunt's book and just get married. Why your mum rebelled? Why she got married first and finished her schooling later?

Because it's Mummy. She isn't the most logical person on the planet. If she was she would have pursued her academic career instead of staying at home with children.

You're still not seeing the obvious, are you?

Pray tell, what's the most obvious answer in there?

That most people don't get married at eighteen without a very good reason. Some chose the early marriage as an escape from difficult situation at home, especially women. But your mum's situation wasn't difficult. She had loving if slightly strict parents, she had no reason to escape.

You're forgetting that my parents are disgustingly devoted to each other, always had been. Daddy still thinks that Mummy is hot and to keep my sanity I don't ask her for her opinion on the matter because I know that she would overshare it in an even worse manner. Besides, pot, kettle, black. It appears that this single-minded devotion to one individual is a family trait.

Yeah. You should definitely talk about that at some point.

Not happening, I already know the answer so I will settle for what I can have.

Then on the other side of the equation you have the Vernets. Working class family that had more mouths to feed than money to do so. Your dad enlisted as soon as he finished schooling because the army was a stable source of income and he had responsibility to his family.

I'm still not seeing where it's going.

Oh, you do. You're just unwilling to consider the idea as anything but ridiculous.

Because it is, one secret sibling is ridiculous but two…

Makes sense to me.

Bollocks.

Your dad's maybe. Facts are, your parents got married when your mother was eighteen. You can't argue with that. Facts are, there's a seven years long age gap between you and Mycroft and a six years long one between your parents' wedding and Mycroft's birth. Why?

Because Mummy was at the university and Daddy was in the army. He also had to wait to advance his own schooling.

Why?

Because he had to support her.

Why?

Because why not? She was his wife.

Who had a trust fund to fall back on. As do you and as does Mycroft. She could have manage to support herself and your father well enough for both of them to finish schooling at the same time.

Cutting her from the access to the trust fund could be some form of punishment for committing a mésalliance. I don't know and I can't exactly ask because people who could have done that are dead and had been for some time.

There's still the family lawyer.

Who bends so hard in front of Mycroft that he's kissing his shoes. Not exactly an option.

I like my explanation better anyway. It explains quite a lot of missing pieces. The age gaps. The reason why your parents married that early. At eighteen she didn't need her parents' or courts permission to get married. Then there's the man you assumed was your dad in your memories with Redbeard but unlike your dad he wasn't allergic to dogs.

Why you assume that another secret sibling would have been a man?

Because in your dream Euros was locked in Sherrinford.

In my dream Sherrinford was a prison, not a person.

True. But you're forgetting Mycroft.

I wish I could.

Was he always overinvested in your life?

He grimaces. It's a loaded question and the answer to it is just as loaded.

At the hospital after the accident or the fire, whichever it was, Mycroft visited him. Not as often as Mummy and Daddy had and usually when he did he was quiet. Later on he was mostly absent due to preparing for exams and then he moved away. He didn't become very involved in his life until drugs started to become a problem and early on he was easy to deceive. Then that year when he was living on the streets happened and that's when Mycroft took upon himself controlling every aspect of Sherlock's life, with varying results.

_East wind is coming, Sherlock. Do you remember Redbeard?_

It didn't start back then. No, it started earlier. As early as when he was still at the hospital. Redbeard at the very least, east wind though… That definitely came later, after he finally started talking.

But someone was there? Weren't? You weren't alone on that clearing with Victor. Someone picked you up from the ground. Someone accompanied you to some outings with Victor. A man. Not your dad or Mycroft. Someone else.

I have male cousins on both sides.

Yes, all of them either your age or younger.

Why you're so adamant about secret brother?

Mycroft.

What about him?

Everything. Your complicated relationship in particular. You love to hate him. You can never resist a chance to get an upper hand. You never met a jab which you didn't use on him. You would happily throw him out of the window but you would also destroy anyone else who would dare to do so.

Your point?

You resent something about him. You make fun of his position and connections but when circumstances demand you use them quite eagerly. You can never resist having the last word in any discussion with him. You purposely ignore his reminders about things like your parents' birthdays or their wedding anniversary. You barter with him every single appearance at family functions. Yet, with the exception of the last binge you always kept the list since he asked you to do so. You resent that too.

I'm still not seeing what my relationship with Mycroft has to do with a secret older brother I might or might not have.

Maybe, on a deeply subconscious level, you resent him because there's a part of you that sees him as an usurper. Maybe because he always had been an arse or maybe because he wasn't the most invested older brother. Why should he be, he had his own interests, social circle, plans for the future and he didn't keep up with you because he didn't have to keep up with you.

It can't be that simple.

But what if it is. What if he didn't get invested in keeping up with you until he was the only one left who could.

You presume that Sherrinford or whatever his name was died with Euros during the fire.

It would have explained your injuries. You didn't have burns. You had broken bones and a concussion. Your injuries were too severe for it being a calculated jump. Odds are very high you were thrown out of the house because the alternative was far more graver than broken bones or the risk of a permanent injury.

Like death.

Obviously all of this is a pure speculation on your part. Both parts actually. The one who is willing to consider than in your past there's an unexplained damaging event and the one that tries to rebel against the idea.

And I don't know if all of this is a leftover hallucinogenic dream from my last binge…

… or deeply buried truth. In certain parts, obviously.

And I won't know for sure unless I verify it. Unless I won't find out whatever Victor Trevor was real or not. Unless I won't find whatever or not the fire was real too. Unless I won't verify the existence of siblings I could have erased because dealing with their deaths on the top of losing my best friend was too painful to handle at the time.

If it's true… I don't know if it's much of a consolation but… You didn't do it alone, Sherlock. Your mind invented new memories and misinterpreted the others but you were surrounded with people who could verify them for you.

And if it's true, they hadn't. They allowed me to believe in a lie.

So what now?

House-arrest. I'm not leaving the flat unless one very stubborn army doctor decides that I can return to work.

You could use said doctor, you know. Put that self-flagellation into actual work.

If I do that and he agrees then he would be out there and not here. Not an option.

Just bloody tell him.

Not an option either. There are more important things right now than digging for a corpse in the wardrobe. This can wait.

You're just resisting figuring out a puzzle?

One that involves me and I cannot do it alone. I'm an unreliable witness.

Suit yourself.

I'm going to, after relieving my bladder and having a cup of tea.

He untangles himself from the duvet as quietly as he can and he pads to the bathroom. He relives himself and while he washes his hands he examines his face. His left eye is still bloodshot but the subconjunctival haemorrhage looks minimally better than it did yesterday. It would still take at least another week for the blood to reabsorb, maybe even two. John has a very mean right hook for a lefty.

He inspects his beard. He always had ambivalent feelings about it. On one hand when he was young it made him look older than he was or at the very least he thought so until one client pointed out that it still looked like a teenager's beard. University saw him going through the cycle of 'I don't have time to shave' and 'now I can spare few minutes to do so'. The parts of summer vacation he was forced to spend either with Mycroft or in rehab saw him sporting a full on beard he shaved off as soon as he was left to his own devices away from a controlling environment. Years between graduation and getting the position of a consultant for NSY were spent pretty much the same except the periods when he bothered to shave lasted longer because one client who saw him both with a beard and without it commented that he looked more professional while he was clean shaven. With passing years shaving became a necessary routine and lack of it became an alarming sign for Mycroft that Sherlock possibly might be on drugs, not that assumption had always been correct.

His hands aren't shaking anymore, not as badly as they used to and he could brave shaving his beard with a razor (because it's the only right way to shave, as he pointed it out to John multiple times). It will definitely take him longer than it usually takes but…

To shave or not to shave.

Part of him feels inclined to shave because it would prove to his minders that he's getting better, enough to put some effort into maintaining the usual levels of his personal hygiene. Another, defiant, part of him, the part that associates the clean face with professionalism and work however stops him from reaching for a razor. He isn't working right now and won't be working at the very least for another week if not two (three even if John has some saying in that and he has).

So after deciding to shelve that internal debate until after the shower he leaves the bathroom and makes his way into the kitchen. He fills out the electric kettle with water, left by the sink for that purpose alone (it used to drive John nuts, at least until he figured out that if the kettle was left by the sink the night before then he didn't have to sanitize it).

Nowadays he keeps two electric kettles around and actually bothers to keep the one he uses for experiments on the shelf. That one even has a plaster on it on which written in a sharpie is a sign 'FOR EXPERIMENTS'.

The things he does for Watson's sake. Admittedly it wasn't a big gesture, he had money to spend and the kettle didn't cost a fortune. It was far more useful though than that fancy dress Molly bought for her, one which Rosie never wore because by the time she grew into it the weather outside was too hot for her to wear it without boiling herself in it.

Godfather: 1

Godmother no. 1 or is it no. 2: 0

Not that he keeps score.

Well, he does. He makes logical choices when they have to be made and he actually bothers to research things. When he bothered. Oh, who he's fooling, he still bothers but now he's so scared of crossing the invisible boundary of overstepping.

Baby steps.

He misses her. Not as badly as he misses John whom he still gets to see but he misses her. He misses putting her down in John's armchair, surrounded by her plushies and pillows and playing for her. He misses testing which melodies put her to sleep and which are waking her up instead. He misses having her put in his arms while John shoos him away from the cooker because he's a slow and easily distracted cook and John needs to eat breakfast before leaving for work. He misses having her around on his own for several hours because Watson's defiance decided to kick in and she fights against getting dressed and being taken into day care at the hospital so hard that John just gives up and asks if Sherlock could look after her until Mrs Hudson will return from the shops. It only happened twice during the weeks which John and Watson spent at Baker Street after Mary pulled a runner.

Maybe he can ask John later today about putting an actual date on his visit to John's and Mary's flat. John said yes to the visit but he knows that it won't happen until John decides that he's fit to leave the flat.

Maybe shaving is actually a good idea.

He places the kettle on the heating part and turns it on before he picks up a clean mug from the shelf and drops a bag into it. Unlike Mycroft who was pathologically obsessed with the proper ceremony for every single cup of tea (when he could get it) he's far more lax in following it. If Mrs Hudson brings him a proper cup of tea before he wakes it's great but if he wakes before her and has to make his own tea he doesn't really mind.

He pours the water into the mug and turns around to the table for the sugar bowl. He doesn't like his tea too sweet, unlike coffee but his…

While he turns around, over his right shoulder, his eyes sweep over the living-room automatically and suddenly he stops midturn.

In his armchair lies a colourful lump and even from the distance he's able to recognise the raised bulge of a nappy covered by trousers.

He lets out a breath and for a moment forgets to breath in because the sight before him is too shocking to believe that it isn't some drug induced hallucination. He draws a shaky breath as he closes his eyes and opens them again.

The lump is still there in his armchair and it didn't disappear when he closed his eyes.

Watson. Rosie. Just there, in his armchair, napping as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He abandons the sugar bowl and the tea altogether because he simply cannot believe what he sees and steps into the living-room carefully allowing his gaze to sweep around the room.

Sure enough on the hook is hanging a small, pink winter jacket but that's all. His own Belstaff is downstairs on the hanger and John when he visits he leaves his jacket downstairs too.

There's no sign of John though, well except for Watson, Rosie, in Sherlock's chair. It's slightly disturbing though because one shouldn't be too far away from the other but…

Maybe it's a test of some sort.

There's tea in the kitchen and some bread in the bread holder but there isn't a lot. In the fridge are leftovers from yesterday's dinner, a lasagne that could be more than enough for one person but not enough for two. There are remains of a strawberry jam and a block of cheese as well as a few eggs and some milk but not a lot of it.

Well, that might explain the lack of John. He stepped out to do the shopping which they're going to need especially if John plans to stay as he was already scheduled, until dinner, or maybe even after dinner considering that Rosie is with him.

He carefully steps around John's chair and gently lowers himself to sit on the edge of the seat as he takes in the sight before him.

Rosie's hair are darker than he remembers them being but then again he hadn't seen her in nearly seven weeks with the exception of a brief glimpse when Molly stepped out of John's and Mary's flat with Rosie in her arms but Rosie had a hat on that day. John's hair before they gone grey were dirty blonde and Mary's… who knows which was her natural colour. Rosie's hair are curly too, like Mary's. But she has John's blue eyes and most likely will end up having his nose too.

She looks so peaceful and so… there, as if the chair was designed for her to nap in it.

They used to put her in John's chair in the past but mostly because John's chair was harder for her to fall from, thanks to the slight tilt of the seat.

She starts stirring in her sleep, slowly. At first her right leg stretches out slightly, then her right arm stretches and her hand swats the cushion of the chair. Then she opens her eyes and she raises her head as she attempts to sit up and he recognises that she might be in danger of falling off the chair so he scoops her up into his arms as soon as she manages to prop herself slightly.

It's an awkward hold. He didn't have a chance to hold her for a long time and she got bigger in the meantime. But soon enough muscle memory kicks in and he rearranges his hold on her to be more comfortable for both of them.

She blinks at him owlishly but she doesn't start screaming, which is good. She just watches him intently, as if she's trying to figure him out. At the same time as she watches him he watches her too and realizes that her eyes got lighter than they have been and rather than John's blue they're Mary's green.

It's a bit disappointing but it doesn't change that she's still John's daughter. Besides she's still small and pudgy like any baby so she might grow into Watson's features.

"I sincerely think that you do, Wa… Rosie," he tells her softly, correcting himself before he calls her Watson again.

In a response she swats his cheek with her right hand and gurgles at the contact with his beard. Then she does it again, patting it gently and moving her tiny fingers over the coarse hair.

"Itches," he says to her.

She probably finds the texture fascinating. He doesn't know who John uses as her sitter and how many of them had been men but John himself is always clean shaven and even when he cannot spare the time to shave properly he tries to use an electric razor. So most probably she didn't have a chance to come in contact with a bearded individual.

Rosie coos as she leans forward and runs both her hands over his beard.

"Glad you approve," he tells her, pausing when she runs her hand over his lip. He chases it with a small peck on it which makes her giggle before he adds. "Your Daddy might not be happy about it though," he pauses again. "We can use your opinion as a leverage in that discussion. I already have a reputation so I don't really need to shave to look professional. Plus, my beard would drive Uncle Mycroft nuts and everything that gives him a conniption is a good thing in my book."

Rosie coos in agreement.

"Great, that's settled," he says lightly. "Do you think I should grow a proper beard? I always wanted to be a pirate and they always had awesome beards."

Rosie grunts.

"Not a good idea?" he asks. "Perhaps you're right. Maintaining a proper beard would probably be more time consuming than shaving. Short beard then it is."

Rosie grunts again and her face scrunches in an expression familiar even to him. She's pooping. He almost groans, hoping that it isn't a messy one. She always liked doing that when John was otherwise occupied or when they agreed that Sherlock would change her next nappy.

At one memorable occasion she made such a mess that not only she needed to be hosed down while being held upright in the bathtub by her arms by Sherlock while John was doing the perfunctory cleaning up of the excess of her poo from her (somehow she even managed to get some of it into her hair) before they gave her a proper bath.

"It's my welcome back poo, isn't it?" he asks in resignation.

Rosie gurgles happily in an answer.

"You just wait," he tells her. "One day when you're grown and acting out your Daddy will punish you by making you clean my fridge and I will make sure that there will be some nasty and smelly spills for you to clean up. Completely safe obviously but gross by some peoples' standards."

Rosie coos as he shifts his hold on her to pat her bum. The bulge feels solid enough so he counts this as a small blessing before he heads back to the kitchen and proceeds to collect everything he needs to clean her up.

Rosie's bath towels were packed up with her when they handed her over to Molly before they went to Morocco so he spreads one of his own, a clean one, on the table after he empties the latter from the usual clutter.

He picks up a nappy from the box that was left behind in the sideboard and he hopes that she still fits into its size otherwise he will have to improvise. Then he returns to the bathroom to collect spare cream that was left behind, the washcloth and baby wipes.

Once he has everything he needs he lies her down on the table and gently removes her trousers and undoes the dirty nappy. As soon as he raises her legs to look at her bum he realizes that he had been deceived and it's a deception that's worthy of Mary's daughter.

Rosie's poo isn't technically a liquid one but it isn't as solid as he had been expecting it to be and the dirty trail spreads all the way beyond the edge of her nappy into her undershirt and now the other shirt she's wearing on the top of it.

"Why I'm not surprised," he tells her.

He turns around eyeing the sink which is blessedly empty and manoeuvring her as carefully as he can he takes her to the sink and places her in it. Once she's seated there he removes her upper layers and because that's his luck he manages to get some of the poo on her hair.

"You're a true criminal mastermind," he sighs. "Moriarty could have learned a thing or two from you," he adds with a grimace and then he smirks at the image. "He would have been far more easier to manage in that form though," he pauses. "James Moriarty criminal mastermind and pooer extraordinaire. Gets shit done at every hour, keeps his hands in every stinky business you can imagine and a few you cannot."

Gently he gives her a perfunctory clean up and holds her up with one arm while he waits for dirty water to disappear down the drain before he puts the plug in the sink and fills the sink with fresh water.

Blessedly someone left a bottle of liquid soap by the sink so he doesn't have to leave her unattended to pick hers from the sideboard or the bathroom. He squeezes some of it straight into the water to make bubbles. She used to be fond of bubbles. Then he steps away just enough to pick her washcloth from the table.

The bubbles keep her occupied while he washes her hair. Then he gets the brilliant idea to swipe a little of the foam from her head and he places it on her nose which makes her go cross-eyed for a moment before she slams both her hands into the water in a sign of protest.

Because his reflexes aren't up to their usual speed of reaction he jumps away but not fast enough to avoid getting splashed completely. There's a wet spot on his t-shirt and left leg of his pyjama pants but it could have been worse.

After that he rinses her gently, mindful to not get the soap into her eyes because he learned that lesson a bit too well in the past. Even at the thought of that he hears slight ringing in his left ear.

Once she's rinsed he holds her up for a moment before he takes a step back to make the transfer from the sink to the table easier without getting more water on himself. Then he places her on the towel on the table and proceeds to perfunctory dry her enough to put a fresh nappy on her.

And because that's apparently his luck the very moment he puts the fresh nappy under her back, lowers her legs and starts moving the front of the nappy towards her tummy to strap it she starts peeing.

"You couldn't have done that while you were in the sink, could you?" he asks her rhetorically.

Rosie coos in an answer.

"Pure evil," he sighs before he reaches for the wipes.

He removes soiled nappy and drops it into the bag with the other one then wipes her before he makes a beeline to the sideboard for a new one.

This time nothing happens when he puts it on her and he finishes towelling her without much of a fuss. Once done with that he wraps her in a towel while he tries to figure out how to handle the next obstacle which is changing her into fresh clothes because all of the old ones with the exception of socks are dirty.

He examines the living-room quickly but there's no diaper-bag in sight. It's weird but he doesn't have time to ponder that problem for too long because he remembers the simple correlation between babies being cold and them peeing themselves.

It might count as overstepping but if John will call him on that he will simply tell him that he couldn't find the bag.

He takes her to his bedroom and places her on the bed while he searches the drawer for what he wants. It was way too big for her when he bought it in the summer but he just couldn't resist the image of cheesy bee sewn on the front of the overalls and yellow shirt with another bee etched on it along with the word 'nice'.

It's cheesy and while God, in which he doesn't believe, forbid he wouldn't buy such a thing for himself doing it for Rosie is a completely different matter. They both have been washed already because knowing that they were too big he simply planned to introduce them into Rosie's wardrobe at the right time. Like he always did whenever he was buying clothes for her. He never liked making much of a fuss out of it so he just made sure that they somehow found their way into diaper bag or Rosie's wardrobe.

He manages to put overalls on her without a fuss and with only minimal kicking. They're still tad too big for her but will only require minimal turning up of the excess material to fit her. The shirt however isn't as easy to put on her. She tries to roll away on the first attempt and keeps flailing her arms until he finally loses patience with bending over her.

So he scoops her up, sits down on the bed and finally manages to wrestle the shirt on her while he's able to restrict her movements with his own body. Once he's done he puts her back on the bed, checks if the shirt didn't roll up in the overalls and fastens the straps. After moving her towards the middle of the bed he goes back to the kitchen to pick up her socks from the pile of the dirty clothing.

Wrestling socks on her takes another few minutes until he distracts her with tickles and finally he straightens and stretches up marvelling at the sight before him.

He feels accomplished and ridiculously pleased with himself.

It shouldn't feel as satisfying as it does. After all it was only changing and bathing his goddaughter but he feels as pleased with himself as he would have been if he just managed to catch a serial killer.

Now he sees another problem. Rosie is dressed and he's not. He also needs a shower, not very badly but he does have some standards. Except hopping into a shower would mean leaving her unattended because the bathroom is too small and too hazardous to put her there to keep an eye on her.

In the end he builds a small wall out of the pillows and rolled up duvet around her and he takes the fastest shower he had in at least a decade before he's back in the bedroom and towelling himself. It's not 'I overslept and I need to shower before going to work' Watson's kind of speed but it's still pretty damn fast.

At the very least Rosie only managed to sit up and throw one pillow on the floor without falling off the bed while he was gone. Which is definitely a plus. Instead she watches him intently as he zigs and zags around the room while he dresses because it occurs to him while he's almost dressed up in his usual attire that with Rosie here his chances of getting himself dirty without intention had improved drastically. On a very bad day in the past she was more than capable of getting a variety of goo on two sets of trousers, three shirts (one of them even before he managed to finish buttoning it up) and two dressing gowns and all of that within a single afternoon.

It's not that he cannot afford dry-cleaning or that Mrs Hudson is incapable of getting the most stubborn stains out of his shirts because they both can but…

The pair of black jeans he picks from the wardrobe is an old one. It's not the oldest one he owns but it's the only one that fits him because they were supposed to be too big when he bought them (as a part of some disguise). They're snug, not as much as some of his trousers but just enough to not require a belt like they did the last time.

He opts out of his normal shirts too and picks a long sleeved cotton shirt he keeps around for sleeping in on very cold winter nights. He doesn't use it often so the black colour didn't have a chance to wash out and it still looks relatively new even though it's not. He foregoes his dressing gowns and replaces them with one of the oldest button ups he owns. Technically speaking it's not even his own shirt but Daddy's and it's a relic from the times when Dad was slightly more bulkier than he's now. The shirt just came back with him from a visit in Sussex once and it just simply didn't make it back there since then.

It's not his usual attire and the entire thing looks like something that came out of John's wardrobe rather than his own but it's practical and it won't bother him overly if it gets dirty. Plus, knowing his luck the odds of him getting dirty drastically decreased just by wearing something he doesn't mind getting dirty.

If today goes well and the Watson contingent visits will gain some permanence he might even stock up similar attires. That might come later but first he needs to get through the day.

He finishes dressing up at the right time for Rosie to start fussing. It's also when he glances at the clock and the hour registers with him. Sure, he's more than capable of telling the hour by the sun's position over Baker Street even in wintertime but it's something he has to concentrate on and sometimes when he wakes up he can't bring himself to bother with it.

It's half past six. Way too early for him because he usually sleeps at the minimum until seven, more often until eight when he can but his entire sleep schedule had been thrown off the course by his recent drug binge. The nightmare didn't help him either and with all the pondering he spent on it he probably woke up between half past five or a quarter to six.

On the top of that he wasn't exactly silent with all the racket he was making and as he tries to strain his ears over Rosie's distressed snuffles he cannot hear any sound coming from Mrs Hudson's flat.

Maybe she stepped out to the shops. She's an early riser even though she needs strong cup of tea to wake up properly.

Or maybe something happened. She isn't as old as his mother, a couple years younger in fact but she has a bad hip and could have fallen down or had a heart-attack.

He's out of the flat and hurrying down the stairs before he even finishes that thought. In seconds he reaches the door, finds it closed and as soon as his hand settles on the knob he also realises that it's locked. Which is weird.

Sure, early on after he moved and for a little while after he returned she used to keep the door to her flat locked, just like he did but soon enough they both grown lax with locking the doors to the individual flats because the front door had quite a good deadbolt and they always locked it. Additionally more often than not the individual door to the flats were either open or at the very least left ajar.

The door being closed is weird because Hudders grown so lax that even when she steps out to the shops she leaves the door to her flat open unless he's with a client when she leaves.

He turns around searching for any note she might have left behind but he finds nothing in the immediate vicinity. He even checks the pocket of his coat on his way upstairs because Rosie is starting to get really fussy.

"Did Daddy drop you here without breakfast," he tells her as he makes his way upstairs.

He examines the sideboard again. Sure enough, it houses a box of Aptamil that was left behind and when he shakes it slightly it appears to be full enough but the jars of baby food that had been left there with it are gone.

Probably he ate them at some point during the binge, though he has no memory of doing that so it might mean that as well as him it could've also been Wiggins. Either way he has no food other than formula.

He picks up Aptamil, places it on the sideboard and using the sideboard as an anchor point he hoists himself upright before he brings it to the counter. He rummages through the upper cupboards for Rosie's bottle because he knows that it's there somewhere.

It isn't. He finds it tucked in the left pocket of his blue dressing-gown in which he went to bed but removed when he went to the bathroom and he can practically hear Mycroft saying '_caring is not an advantage_' when he pulls it up from the pocket.

Fuck off, Mycroft.

He allows that thought to pass through his mind as he makes his way back to the kitchen and as he enters it he spots a bowl of fruits which had been steadily filling up since he returned from the hospital. Every single one of his minders either bring one or two with them when they arrive or at the very least try to force one into him.

John is the most lax one of them when it comes to that. Unlike Molly he remembers that Sherlock is picky about his apples and indifferent to pears unless John comments that they're really sweet. Also as a doctor he recommends bananas but at the moment Sherlock has more than enough of bananas to not touch one for at least a week and they keep pilling.

He picks the most ripe banana from the bowl and brings it to the counter then he goes through the motions of cleaning up and sanitising the bottle. He had enough presence of mind to pour recommended dosage of warm water into a clean mug before he boiled the kettle again to sanitise the bottle.

It's a struggle and it drags on which Rosie doesn't like very much. The whole process would be much faster if he had both of his hands free. He could of course pick Rosie's highchair from upstairs but doing so would require either leaving her unattended or going there with her and then lunging it back downstairs while still holding her which wouldn't be exactly an easy task.

He should have gotten a carrier to keep for emergencies like that. He could have wrap her in his scarf in a makeshift sling carrier but it would have been too short for her, the knot would have to be very ti…

Then it comes to him.

Mummy's Christmas present, well part of it anyway. One that didn't make it to the package he sent to Sussex because he bought it in Morocco and during his drug binge he completely forgot about it. It's a cashmere shawl and it's longer than his own scarf, it probably won't be as secure as a proper wrap carrier like the one he found Mary watching when she and John were deliberating over the subject.

He tuned out most of the discussion back then and the only thing that registered with him was that John wasn't a fan of the idea of wrapping.

So the idea has some potential of being not good but if John will raise some objections then well, he didn't leave Rosie's carrier behind and besides it will be for just a few minutes.

So he leaves the water to cool down and once again makes his way into the bedroom. He plops Rosie in the middle of the bed and starts rummaging through the drawers for the shawl. He finds it pretty easily in the same drawer in which he keeps the stuff he buys for Rosie but tucked in the deep end of it.

It smells of fabric softener so he guesses that's clean enough for Rosie.

Tying it properly possesses some problem but from the memories from India, Nepal and Tibet he remembers that the whole thing should be adjustable by pulling at the tails of the sling so he tries various knots until he gets one that tightens and lessens the fabric by pulling on the tail.

Rosie gets into the sling without protests and allows him to pull the fabric until it's pulled over her knees and her back. The sling pinches a bit at the neck but once he adjust it it's perfect. One perfectly snuggled baby in and two free hands out.

He makes his way back to the kitchen and returns to preparing the bottle for Rosie. Once done and checked for temperature he hands it to her. While she's occupied with the bottle he washes and peels of the banana before he drops it into a bowl and proceeds to mash it into a pulp with a fork.

She's halfway through the bottle when he offers her the first spoon of banana mush. She accepts it eagerly and mashes her lips together when he tries to gently pull the spoon out of her mouth.

He smiles at her and waits for her to swallow before he gives her another. When he's waiting for her to swallow this time he walks over to the fruit bowl and picks another banana. Between another spoon he pours out his cold tea and washes and peels off the banana. Between another he turns on the kettle and prepares tea for himself. By the time she munches on the next one he decides to prepare a pot of tea. Because even if John had the worst luck ever at the shops he should be coming back by now and a cup of warm tea might put him in a good mood.

He feeds Rosie with another spoon of the banana mush before he refills the kettle and starts preparing the pot. He's quite loud, puttering around the kitchen, switching smaller pot that would be able to fill four cups of tea he picked first for the bigger one that would fill four mugs instead. Then he ponders upon the actual tea. His preferred choice for morning tea is Earl Grey but John prefers English Breakfast or Yorkshire Gold.

While the kettle begins to boil he goes to the fridge hunting for remains of milk because he remembers that there should be enough of it for tea. He picks the milk from the fridge, bangs the door shut while he's turning around and manages to put the last spoon of banana mush in Rosie's mouth before he pours the water into the pot.

He's pondering whatever or not he should warm up the mugs with boiled water when he hears the distinctive sound of John cleaning his throat coming from behind his back. He puts the kettle down on the counter and finds himself smiling as he's turning away from the counter over his right shoulder.

John is standing in the doorway with a diaper bag slung over his right shoulder and a shopping bag and keys in his right hand, a very surprised look on his face and – that's when Sherlock's smile turns first into a frown and then into a mirror of John's surprised face – on his left hip John is holding a pink fluffy bundle that reaches out and pulls the tiny cap from its head just enough to reveal a hint of dark blonde curls.

He blinks and tries to process what just happened.

John is right before him and he's holding a child that from the distance looks like Rosie he remembers. On the other hand the weight on his left side and hip is solid, as is the hand that comes to swat him on the nose and then pat him on the beard as the not-Rosie in his arms tries to reach for the bottle over his back.

Mechanically he steps away to the right and turns slightly to the left to pick it up and offer it to not-Rosie. She picks it up and raises it to chug at the remains of milk happily. He watches her do it, she's smiling around the teat.

Dark curls, green eyes. Definitely real.

"Sherlock," says John finally which makes Sherlock turn his head back to him. "Would you mind…" he pauses and clears his throat. "Who's that?" he asks finally.

Sherlock looks from John to not Rosie and then back to John again before he answers blankly, "I can honestly say that I don't have even the faintest idea."

* * *

**Next:** John


	2. Chapter 2

_As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll fight with your best friend. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did. You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. _

_~Author Unknown_

**John**

His alarm is set for half past four but he wakes up at least few minutes before it rings. Through not completely closed curtains he can see that it's still dark outside and that it will be for a while.

He presses the backs of his hands into his eyes and tries not to groan, too loudly at the very least. God, what a nightmare. Actually, a parade of horrors and thrillers wrapped in, well, everything. Dissecting it with Elsa should be fun. Oh, who he's kidding, therapy had been an absolute hell in so far.

More often than not when he leaves Elsa's office, he feels absolutely exhausted both physically and emotionally. She's understanding but scarily perceptive and efficient in dissecting him. That's why while part of him doesn't want to do it he stays with her rather than going back to Ella.

It's not that Ella is a bad therapist, in fact, she came highly recommended when he was looking for one after he was released from the hospital all these years ago. She just isn't the right therapist for him, never had been.

And as much as part of him needs to be told that it's okay to not be okay he also needs someone who is capable of telling him off when he acts like a complete shit.

Over past week Elsa had been dissecting him bit by bit. The first day doesn't really count because it got interrupted. The following ones though?

He called her straight from the hospital where he left Sherlock after ensuring that no one will murder him in his sleep and consulting on his treatment with the doctors. She agreed to the emergency meeting the following day.

It was supposed to be an hour session that turned into one that lasted three hours and forty-three minutes most of which he spent hiding behind Rosie but it was very informative session, too informative. Hence the invite to another meeting on Sunday.

In conclusion to both on Monday morning he showed up in Sarah's office and after a long discussion they made arrangements to switch his full-time position to part time one with two set days a week. It's a Tuesday/Thursday arrangement, twelve hours on Tuesday and eight on Thursday.

Financially it's a step-down but one he can afford. He still has an army pension, granted it's not much but it's there. Then there's the flat which is… a complicated issue. Technically, it's his flat, his name is on the deed and he was the one who put the money on the table to buy it but they didn't exactly come from him. It was a bequest from the last will and testament left to him by not a really dead detective and if it wasn't for Mycroft's insistent pestering, he wouldn't even touch the money. But after five months of 'he wanted you to have it' and 'consider it honouring his memory for God's sake' as well as 'are you waiting for him to raise from the grave to tell you that you're an idiot for living in this conditions when you can afford better ones' he gave up.

Strictly speaking he didn't give up to Mycroft's pestering. Mycroft alone he could tune out and ignore whenever he showed up but when Mycroft left Sherlock came out and stayed and he wasn't sugar-coating the issue. He commented, quite frequently, on quality of the furniture, draft from the kitchen window, the state of communal bath, John's commute to work. He also called him an idiot at least once per day and repeated Mycroft's words in a verbatim.

Touching the money didn't feel right until Sherlock finally offered a solution to the problem that John could actually stomach. Use the money for buying a bigger, hospitable place within reasonable distance from the hospital and then instead of paying mortgage spending the amount of money that would eventually go to mortgage for aiding charities that helped various individuals with mental health. The charities varied from month to month but he always paid them dutifully.

At least until the not dead detective had risen from the grave. It had been a funny conversation, that one. It didn't happen immediately after Sherlock's return but it happened and predictably Sherlock was able to weasel out of every single attempt of having a conversation about that subject. But over the past two years with the exception of last month John was relentless. Sherlock could be avoiding the issue like a plague – except he wouldn't be avoiding the actual plague – but John Watson had his honour and he was planning to return the money he spent on the flat.

So, every month 'mortgage' payment had been deposited to a separate account he opened in his name only. Sometimes it was more, sometimes less but at the minimum he tried to put away 500 quid per month (but during his separation from Mary after she shot Sherlock at one point, he managed to put away 2000 quid).

Either way he will manage on what he has and if not, he can always fall back on the 'mortgage' account. It's not that convincing Sherlock to take the money would be easy. But right now, he has priorities other than money.

Rosie is his first priority. She's been home with him since he picked her from Stella and Ted late on Friday night after the whole Culverton mess. Monday morning, she spent in hospital's day-care. His supposedly first twelve hours shift on Tuesday that lasted only eight hours because he worked four on Monday she spent with Stella's and Ted's daughter who had Tuesdays off and didn't mind babysitting but it was done at the flat rather than at their place. Besides Sherlock got released from the hospital in the afternoon so it was better that he didn't have to worry about picking her up.

Then Sherlock's birthday happened. After a shitty start of the day with Rosie who was contrary to everything, starting from getting fresh nappy on her to dropping her of in hospital's day-care. Her morning tantrum was followed by a physically and mentally exhausting day at work (because he had to catch up with his paperwork before he would fully start working part-time) then it was topped with lunch in close company of a first class cow who had her opinions on how single father's should handle single fatherhood (basically by remarrying as soon as it was appropriate). It was all followed by a session with Elsa that in so far had proven to be the most exhausting one yet which in turn was followed with handling fussy Rosie to Mike's and Stella's daughter at the entrance to Regent's Park rather than at home because he needed to change Mrs Hudson on time so she could make it to her dental appointment.

The day had been steadily chipping away at him and Sherlock's earnestness to have him at Baker Street only made it worse. On one hand he acted as if nothing had happened, as if John hadn't laid a hand on him and proceed to beat him into a bloody pulp and on the other, he felt guilty. Guilty for decisions that weren't his own to make.

And John couldn't even bring himself to tell him that he and Rosie were the only innocent parties in the whole mess that was John's and Mary's marriage.

A marriage that shouldn't take place but it had.

A marriage that was built on lies told by both parties.

A marriage that didn't end only because they stupidly brought an innocent child into it without discussing the subject at all.

A marriage that made him feel powerless, useless and selfish in turns.

A marriage he was willing to throw away for a single smile coming from a woman whose face he couldn't even remember. He didn't even bother to remember who he was married to. Well, he did remember but even months after meeting E he wasn't sure what he was trying to accomplish by following through with the texting.

Suicidal ideation on a subconscious level? Did Mary even notice? He wasn't sure. He didn't have a chance to ask her that but on the other hand that fucked up message which she left to Sherlock… and her last words…

And he couldn't even bring himself to discuss it with Sherlock. He knew that he should but it was too early, he felt too raw, stretched too thin and off kilter. He needed time to stomach it and make some semblance of sense in his head before he would start this particular conversation with Sherlock.

But then the Woman and her infernal text happened and it spiralled from there. It wasn't technically a lie when he told Sherlock that he never knew when his birthday was. He didn't know it when they were living together because Sherlock never acknowledged the day when it happened. But the date was on his bloody gravestone for crying out loud. Then after he returned that particular day was spent at chasing a kidnaper of a five years old all over London and the chase itself lasted three days. The next one Sherlock spent zigging and zagging all over London too, thanks to his hunt for Moriarty's plan, he dragged John through some part of it too until he finally crashed and slept through thirty-six hours straight. So last year John promised himself that this year it would be different and he… He wasn't sure whatever or not the date just slipped from his mind or whatever or not he just didn't address it because he felt that he had no right to address it.

Irene Adler was the very last thing he needed that day and proved to be his breaking point. At first it was just a gnawing thought that Sherlock would have been better off in the company of someone whom he knew for who and what they were and not this pitiful, powerless, broken shell of a man masquerading as a best friend. One who was too blind to see who he was turning into and what he was doing to the people he supposedly cared for.

But over the course of the mostly one-sided conversation the wave that was threatening to sweep him off his feet finally crashed. It didn't sweep him right off his feet though, he had enough presence of mind left to not unload everything on Sherlock.

He didn't know why cheating on Mary was the first thing that came to his mind. Because it was a concrete proof that he wasn't the person Sherlock believed him to be? Because it had been Sherlock and not Mary to whom he was making that confession. It was Sherlock's high opinion and Sherlock's high standards of him that he was failing to meet. But he still wanted to, he knew that he didn't deserve a second chance but he desperately needed it and he found himself meaning every single word of it.

And Sherlock… while he was crying with Sherlock's arms around him, he promised himself that after giving Sherlock a couple more days to recover physically he would try to convince him to attend a therapy session with Elsa. He hated the idea of using a referee to help him fix their friendship but it was better than their usual tactic of ignoring the issue until it eventually went away or ended up blowing right into their faces.

So, the nightmare isn't really surprising. Various parts of it had been festering under the surface for weeks, years even. Also, various parts of it he already dreamed both over the years and recently.

Still, it's the most fucked up nightmare he had in so far and it proves that he should raise with Sherlock the issue of the mysterious brother. Not that he has a right to ask about it, he knows that he doesn't, especially if it's something Sherlock doesn't want to talk about at all. But at the very least he needs to put it out there and trust Sherlock to make the decision about sharing or not sharing the information with him.

Then maybe he should bring up therapy and gently suggested that a joint session could help them find their footing in the aftermath of all of it. He won't press if Sherlock will say no but it's another thing, he needs to put out there because someone needs to make Sherlock see that there's something seriously wrong with his self-esteem.

He contemplates going back to sleep. Rosie usually doesn't wake before half past five, at times even six and he isn't scheduled to show at Elsa's office until eleven and at Baker Street at one o'clock.

Yesterday before going to bed he promised himself to sleep on the idea of bringing Rosie to Baker Street. On one hand Sherlock's hopeful expression when he asked about seeing her soon nearly made him bring her over yesterday just because Sherlock asked and on the other hand Rosie is Rosie. She's perfect but she's also getting scarily mobile and quite loud on the top of a Watson temperament. As much as he loves her, he doesn't think that he should unleash Rosie on Sherlock for maybe next few days.

He's still unsure. On one hand there is having two most important people in his life in the same space while on the other there's the thought that maybe they should start with smaller doses. An hour or two tops and his turn to watch Sherlock is supposed to take between five to six hours. Sherlock might not be ready for that.

Suddenly he finds himself torn from his thoughts by the ringing of his phone and he dreads answering it even before he looks at the name of the caller and his anxiety only increases when he sees that it's Mrs Hudson. A call this early doesn't bode well at all.

He accepts the call and says, "Yes, Mrs H."

"John," she says calmly. "Did I wake you? I was hoping…"

"Is it Sherlock?" he doesn't let her finish.

"Oh," she breathes out. "No, he's fine. He was still asleep when I checked up on him. It's not Sherlock but it's kind of connected."

"Okay," he mumbles.

"You remember that I was supposed to stay with him this morning because Greg and Molly are working and you have prior arrangements?" she asks slowly.

"You can't make it, can you?" he asks, feeling slightly calmer. "How early you need to leave?"

"Immediately," she sighs heavily. "My niece called an hour ago. My sister had a heart-attack. She says that it's a bad one," she pauses as if she was weighing her next words. "That girl had always been prone to colorizing and blowing things out of proportion in the past but…"

"… you're worried that this is this one time when she isn't," he finishes for her. "Go," he tells her. "I'll look after him, it's not a problem. Just a quick question. He said yesterday when I was leaving that he's heading to bed…"

"He had," she confirms. "He was sleeping by eleven when I checked up on him and if he keeps to his schedule he should sleep until seven, even eight," she answers the question he didn't ask.

"That's good," he tells her. "I'll try to get there slightly earlier than that. Be careful on the road."

"Oh John, I'm always a careful driver," she tells him.

"I noticed," he breaths out because he remembers the last time when he saw her driving.

She knocked over a rubbish bin and was followed by just two police cars and a chopper.

"Oh, hush you," she quips as if she knew what he's thinking. "I'll call when I will know something more," she says before she hangs up.

There goes catching up on more sleep, he thinks as he pushes down the duvet before he stands up and stretches himself. He goes to Rosie's bedroom to check up on her. Blessedly she's still asleep and not even wet, which he counts as another blessing.

On his way to the bathroom he checks the time and shakes his head. No wonder why she's still asleep. It's barely four in the morning and she no longer requires feeding at three.

Quickly he showers and dresses up for the day before he heeds to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Coffee and toast for him and formula with some banana mush for Rosie on the side. It's a breakfast that goes down easily with her. She can even eat a banana without mushing it but he prefers to not give her that the very first thing in the morning.

While puttering around the kitchen he ponders what he should do about Rosie today. Originally Tina, Stella's and Ted's daughter agreed to watch her in the afternoon today. She was supposed to take her for a walk in the park before returning to the flat. But Tina has classes in the morning…

He could drop her off at Ted's and Stella's but that would be going against his decision to keep Rosie at the flat when he isn't there. Sure, it could be an exception but he doesn't want to start making exceptions. That's how it all started. Just for the night turned into just for two and before he realised what had happened, he was seeing his daughter on weekends. That's not an option.

That leaves taking Rosie to Baker Street with him and depending on how the initial meeting will go he can either keep her there with him for the rest of the day or let Tina take her after her classes will end.

Sherlock will probably appreciate her visit no matter how long it would last.

Once he has the breakfast prepared and Rosie's diaper-bag properly stocked with everything he's going to need (and hopefully few things he won't need, like four changes of clothes) he checks on her again and finds her wet and stirring.

He changes her quickly and efficiently before she works herself into a snit over being hungry. Sherlock once said while he and Rosie were temporarily living at Baker Street after Mary pulled a runner that Rosie is a true Watson and when John pressed him to elaborate that he only said that they were both grumpy when hungry. At the time whatever rebuttal John had on the tip of his tongue was lost by the sheer distraction that was Sherlock holding Rosie up to burp her.

He remembers wishing that it would never end. Moriarty and his posthumous game be damned this were his two favourite people in the place that always felt like home.

Maybe someday it could be home once more, he thinks and shakes his head, pushing that traitorous thought away. Not now and not without resolving the multitude of issues between him and Sherlock.

Baby steps, Watson.

The actual baby in the equation eats her banana and her formula without much of a fuss which is a good thing. She coos to herself in her high-chair while he's cleaning after breakfast and she doesn't even try to fight him while he puts her into that pink, fluffy monstrosity that Mary adored so much that she bought several of them in different sizes. John just found them ridiculous, much like Sherlock, who once or twice (out of Mary's earshot) muttered something about instilling proper sense of fashion as one of godfather's duties.

Rosie was steadily growing out of the biggest one of them (not completely yet but John had doubts that she would hold out with growing out of it until the summer) so who knew, maybe that shopping trip was going to happen sooner rather than later. At least a planned shopping trip would keep Sherlock from sneaking new clothes that couldn't be returned because the prat was not only accurate in his estimations when it came to clothing Rosie (no surprises there) but he also had a habit of sneaking them into her wardrobe or diaper bag already washed and missing tags.

Sherlock was also excellent with putting Rosie to sleep. One afternoon, probably as some sort of experiment, he managed to put her to sleep for a nap and then rouse her again just by playing the violin. Rosie loved the violin, the sound as well as tracking the movements of the bow.

Once they're both dressed, he almost puts her in the carrier. He's been using it steadily since she returned home for both longer and shorter trips. Elsa refers to it as self-appointed punishment for being an absentee father and tells him that he's allowed to put her down in a car-seat or in a pushchair in circumstances when using one seems like a more sensible choice than lugging around about twenty pound baby at the front and about other twenty pounds or more in purchases.

The thing is, he abhors Rosie's pushchair, always had. It's one of these egg-like things, very unstable and has non-existent shopping basket. Not to mention it's pink and not just pink but in an actually eye-sore shade of neon pink. It was Mary's choice, supposedly hip and highly recommended.

It was useful for as long as Rosie needed the basinet. Since then it had been stored in the boot of the car, which he also rarely uses. He always abhorred how big it was for the two of them but it was Mary who paid for it, without a doubt with the dirty money, he knows that now. But back then, because it was Mary's money that paid for it, he just let her chose everything: brand, model, colour, interior. If someone asked him about his opinion on the matter, he would have bought something smaller than that Audi station wagon if he had to buy a car at all. A Fiat most probably, a 500 or a Panda and definitely not in black because finding that car in a carpark was always a horror even though he had a very good sense of direction. White wouldn't be good either, too popular colour. Blue maybe or yellow, that would have been much easier to find in the carpark.

Which would be better, that black monstrosity with a car-seat or just her carrier and diaper-bag?

If he intends to keep Rosie all day at Baker Street, he's going to need food for her. She isn't a big fan of stuff that comes out of jar, nor is he for that matter. Desserts she's fine with but anything more complicated than a fruit mush is considered inedible. Overall, it's a good thing because no matter how its producers call their food safe and healthy, they're still filled with preservatives. That leaves cooking and cooking at Baker Street for the matter. When he checked Sherlock's fridge yesterday while he was storing away leftover takeaway it didn't look too bad. At least too bad by Sherlock's standards of the amount of food kept in the fridge. There was a block of cheese, some strawberry jam, a few eggs, some milk which would have been enough for tea…

Car it is then. He puts Rosie's carrier in the diaper-bag, just in case and brings her to the car.

It's nearing six by the time he gets to Marylebone and he loses some time at driving around looking for a Tesco Express that opens at six rather than seven.

He gets the shopping done in a record time but his good progress with the shopping gets halted at the register. While he's with Rosie he doesn't want to use self-check outs and the only proper register that's open is manned by the slowest cashier on earth and before him are two idiots that argue with the cashier pretty much about everything, from cost of the bread to whatever or not the tomatoes they picked are organic or not.

By the time he finally leaves Tesco it's twenty to seven already and he still needs to get to Baker Street and park the car around the back. Luckily, he still has the complete set of keys to 221 Baker Street which includes the keys to the back entrance as well as Mrs Hudson's flat since it's the only entry point from the back and there's no parking allowed in the front.

It could be around seven by the time he finally crosses through Mrs Hudson's kitchen, locking both doors behind himself because that's how he found them. Once he's done with the door, he stops to adjust his hold on Rosie as well as the diaper-bag and allows his ears to strain for the sounds coming from upstairs.

Sherlock is definitely up and puttering around the kitchen, hopefully making tea rather than cooking heroine because while they cleaned the flat completely it's Sherlock and who knows how many new hiding spots he managed to find when no one was keeping an eye on him.

John knows that he should announce himself and that doing so would have been a sign of trust but part of him, quite large party of him actually wants to see Sherlock before he has time to school his features.

He makes his way upstairs quietly to the accompaniment of click and clack of utensils. Few steps in he can see that while the door to the living room are closed the one leading to the kitchen is open wide and the overhead kitchen lamp is lit.

He makes his way to the first-floor landing in the accompaniment of running water and stops dead in his tracks just as he's about to call 'good morning' because the sight before him renders him speechless.

Sherlock is already dressed, though not his usual attire. Instead of suit pants he's wearing dark jeans and the untucked shirt he's wearing over them looks nothing like one of his dress shirts, but that's not the most surprising part of his attire. It's a turquoise shawl that Sherlock saw at the marketplace while they were in Morocco and decided to purchase it as his mother's Christmas present. The shawl itself wouldn't have been surprising even in that colour because Sherlock likes to wrap himself in things with at least minimal dramatic flair. Usually it's one of his dressing gowns or his Belstaff and even though he prefers to tie his own scarves in Italian knot he used to be quite fond of wrapping himself into anything remotely wrappable starting from bedsheets and ending on the plethora of blankets and afghans.

It's the way the shawl is wrapped around him that's wrong, not over both of his shoulders but over his right shoulder and diagonally across his back but then a small hand raises over Sherlock's shoulder and pats him there.

It must be another hallucination; John decides as he closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly. He opens them again to see Sherlock make his way to the fridge and sees the owner of the hand strapped to Sherlock's left side.

It's an actual baby. It's about Rosie's age, give or take a couple of weeks, at the very least judging from the distance and the fact that it's mostly swaddled in the shawl. It has curly mop of dark hair, lighter than Sherlock's but darker than Rosie's. From the distance John can't see the kid's eyes very well but what he can actually see is the easiness with which Sherlock sticks a spoon of mush into the child's mouth and removes it while the baby munches on it before he pours the water into the teapot.

Meanwhile John clears his throat because if there's one thing that requires a proper explanation it's definitely the baby in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock places the kettle down on the counter before he starts turning away from the counter over his right shoulder. He's smiling as he does that but as he takes the sight of John and consequently Rosie in his smile first turns into a frown and then after a single blink into this blank, usually expressionless 'I'm processing things' face.

As Sherlock does that the baby's left hand swats him on the nose before it moves to pat his beard before the child tries to reach over Sherlock's shoulder for something on the counter. That appears to snap Sherlock out enough to move slightly so he can retrieve whatever the baby wants from him.

Oh, the bottle, John realizes as Sherlock handles the baby the bottle. It picks it up when Sherlock offers it and chugs at the remains of what looks like milk while Sherlock looks at it with an intensity that he would have given to a bomb if he suddenly found himself strapped to one.

John almost smiles at the sight, almost. But there are more important things right now.

"Sherlock," says John finally which makes Sherlock turn his head back look at him. "Would you mind…" he pauses and clears his throat. "Who's that?" he asks finally.

Sherlock looks from John to the baby strapped in his arms and then back to John again before he answers blankly, "I can honestly say that I don't have even the faintest idea."

"Okay," says John slowly as he bends slightly to place the shopping bags and the diaper-bag on the ground.

Come to think about it, he should also get Rosie out of that ball of fluff before she will start fussing.

He does just that while not taking his eyes from Sherlock who looks between the baby in his arms and Rosie that gets unveiled from her outwear.

Oh. It suddenly clicks in John's mind and he can practically feel his ears burning with shame.

It had nearly been two months since Sherlock last saw Rosie and with both babies appearing to be so close in age it's no wonder he took the other baby for Rosie even though the two looked nothing alike.

"So how did this happen?" asks John once he picks Rosie up.

"I woke up and found her in my chair," answers Sherlock, his voice still sounds a little off.

"Her?" presses John.

"We had an accident," explains Sherlock. "Of the how it got up there variety," he adds after a moment. "I thought…" he shakes his head.

"Honest mistake and my fault on that," says John quickly.

"Lack of the diaper-bag threw me off," sighs Sherlock. "I should have questioned that but she's been pretty absorbing."

"I bet," hums John. "Would you terribly mind?" he asks as he walks around the table and stops right in front of Sherlock, shifting Rosie slightly to make the transfer easier.

Sherlock blinks slowly but he wraps his right arm around her middle and pulls her close to him.

He looks kind of adorable and if the situation wasn't as bizarre as it is John would have stopped to take a photo of them. So, he resorts to kissing Rosie's downy hair as he gently runs his right hand over the other girl's dark curls which makes her look at him so he can clearly see her green eyes.

Good. More data. He smiles at the man in front of him before he makes his way to the living-room to inspect it closely.

On the hanger on the door he finds a pink jacket. There's a baby scarf and a cap stuffed into one of the sleeves and into its pocket are stuffed baby gloves. No diaper bag in sight.

He inspects the area around the sofa closely. There's nothing stuffed under or around or behind it but as he looks towards the fireplace from the sofa, he founds something dark stuffed behind Sherlock's chair.

He heads over there just as Sherlock comes into the living-room, carefully balancing Rosie and the other girl in his arms. John bends over Sherlock's chair to pick up the bag from behind it. It had been tucked there rather closely and surprised by the sudden appearance of the baby Sherlock had to miss it.

The bag doesn't look like a typical diaper-bag, more like a mid-sized, black duffel bag. Briefly he inspects it from the outside before he places it on the table to inspect its contents. The bag is most filled with clean nappies, several bottles, a pack of baby wipes. It also holds a box of formula and few changes of clothes and a pair of shoes. There's also a light-brown teddy bear which appearance causes cooing behind John's back so he quickly sticks it out in Sherlock's general direction as he continues to rummage through the bag one handed.

Suddenly he comes upon three DVD discs, each in a separate box. The surface of the first two is blank but the third one is signed with a marker. The sign on it reads:

MISS YOU

His mind immediately goes to Mary's message in his dream and the actual one she left behind. He has no idea how the other little girl fits into all of this but if Mary is involved the next time, he'll see Mycroft the older Holmes would be missing all of his teeth.

"Well, fuck you," he mutters as softly as possible as he inspects first the box and then the disk itself under different angles.

There are no clean prints that he can see on both sides of either. But he sort of expected that after the initial message.

He takes a look at Sherlock who looks between the disk and John and shakes his head before he grimaces slightly when Rosie's knee hits him in the ribs.

John places the bag on the other chair then he pulls Sherlock's laptop closer and opens it before he takes his little kicking menace from Sherlock. As the laptop wakes John sits down in the chair while Sherlock perches on the armrest of his chair.

"You don't think…" starts Sherlock softly as he gestures at the girl in his arms.

"You were there," John reminds him. "And while I only attended only one ultrasound, I assure you that I wouldn't be able to miss a second baby in there."

"Point," mutters Sherlock. "Though after all of this I wouldn't be surprised if that happened."

"Neither would I," admits John as he plugs in the DVD. "But I'm trusting my medical experience on that matter and I'm sure that there wasn't a second baby."

The DVD launches and the player opens on the screen.

It opens up to a weirdly familiar setting. There's a single window on the wall on the other side of the room and it's big enough to cover a little more than a third of the wall. On the left side of the screen is a white mantelpiece and by the far end on the right side there's a single, thin, white heater. The size and the setting of the room reminds him of his old bedsit. But it can't be his old bedsit, can it be? There are hundreds if not thousands of rooms like that all over London and it doesn't even have to be in London.

But regardless of the niggling similarities with his old bedsit the room looks nothing like his old bedsit. The walls are painted bright yellow, the curtains around the window are drawn open, the tiny windowsill is filled knickknacks, mostly books. Before the window itself there's pull-away futon that looks like it came from IKEA. In fact, most of the furniture looks like it came out of IKEA. On the left side of the window next to the mantelpiece there's a bookstand that moonlights as a bookshelf and TV centre. The portion of the wall where the heater is located had been left open but right next to it there's a small cluttered desk that looks white under all the clutter on it. Next to the desk there's a big floor to ceiling wardrobe with sliding doors. One of the panes is in white wood while the other is a mirror. The table which in his own bedsit was right under the kitchen wall is a little off to the left in the corner while the area under….

"I think that we're stuck on pause," says Sherlock gently.

"Right," says John quickly in what he hopes is an apologetic tone before he shakes his head and presses space bar again.

The video keeps playing for a few seconds before someone enters the screen from the right side of the camera.

Kitchen, his mind supplies.

It's a woman. Her curly hair is blue and pulled back into a messy bun. In her arms she's holding a baby with slightly familiar dark mop of curls and roughly about the same size as the one in Sherlock's arms. Then she lowers the baby gently into what John hopes is a crib just below the breakfast bar out of the camera view. It's a weird place for a crib but it's far away from the window and the TV so maybe that's why it's there.

Soon enough the woman in the video straightens and leans against barely visible railing of the crib. She quietly clears her throat and looks down, most probably at the baby, before she raises her head and looks straight in the camera.

Either by accident or instinct John hits the space bar again so the video freezes like that and he finds himself staring at her face. From what little that can be seen through her fringe of her forehead, above her slightly curved thick eyebrows, it's a high one and her face is oblong and slightly angular. She has high-cheekbones and a slight curve to her chin as well as what appears to be a straight nose that both seems a tad too big for her face and well-proportioned. But what draws his attention the most is her lips, quite thin for her face but with a clearly outlined cupid's bow.

It takes all of his power to just not look over his shoulder to stare at Sherlock because that's got to be some cosmic joke and there has to be something about her face that doesn't remind John of the man.

But no, the longer he stares at her the more similarities he can see. Her lips for starters. Then her hair, far longer than Sherlock's and obviously dyed blue but her eyebrows are dark, similar in thickness but slightly fuller and curved. Also, blue or not her hair is curly and her fringe is styled to shorten her high forehead (something which Sherlock sometimes does and sometimes forgets about). The nose is also Sherlock's, probably a little shorter. But what really makes him realise that he's most likely staring at Sherlock's daughter is her eyes. Same size, same shape and from what he can tell probably even the same colour. It's hard to make it out from the distance and with the shitty lighting in the room but her eyes appear to be green or grey or blue or some variation of either of them. The one thing he's sure about their colour is that they aren't brown. Just like Sherlock's because if there's one thing John can tell with utmost certainty about Sherlock's eyes is that they aren't brown, as for the rest the colour varies depending on the time of the day. For most of the time it's some mixture of green and grey but in certain lights they appear blue.

The girl in the video? Most likely Sherlock's daughter.

Or a sister, his treacherous mind supplies.

She looks too fresh faced for a twin and if he had one… Right, probably not a good way to go down that road.

"How…" he hears Sherlock whisper behind him and Sherlock pauses to swallow. "How old she appears to you?"

"Between eighteen and twenty-five," John sighs. "But she might be thirty and has an excellent beauty regime," he pauses.

But if she's thirty and can afford an excellent beauty regime then she should definitely be able to afford something better than a bedsit with a baby, he thinks but doesn't say that.

He waits a few seconds more before he turns around towards Sherlock. The other man is leaning forwards slightly. His right hand is on his knee while his left arm supports the baby in the sling. But his eyes are completely focused on the face on the screen, his mouth slightly open.

He's thinking, calculating the odds, John thinks.

"Sherlock?" John asks gently. "Do you have a sister?"

"I…" Sherlock starts and pauses, "I'm not sure," he finishes after a beat.

How can you be unsure about an answer to a yes or no question, thinks John.

"There's a…" Sherlock starts again. "I used to be sure about a lot of things about my childhood but I'm…" he pauses. "I'm not sure anymore," he pauses again. "A year ago, my answer would have been a definite no but…"

"She's younger than you," points out John. "Significantly, I should add. She looks closer to twenty rather than thirty."

"There's that," sighs Sherlock heavily. "Body more of a teenager rather than a grown woman. Nineteen to twenty-one. Can't be older."

"Why are you so certain?" asks John gently.

Sherlock remains silent for a longer while before he looks towards the kitchen and then back at John before he grimaces.

"Drugs were always a problem," he admits finally. "For as long as I can remember," he sighs heavily. "Antianxiety medication and mild sleeping pills in my childhood. They went away around the time I started playing violin. It helped me think, ground myself…"

"Coping mechanism," nods John. "What for?"

"That's the part I'm uncertain of," Sherlock grimaces. "What I'm certain of is that several months prior to my eight birthday I participated in some sort of accident that caused extensive damage. Could have been a car accident or I could have fallen out of a window. I'm not sure. I remember casts, both legs and arms, ugly walls of the hospital room, my eight birthday there," he pauses. "Not being able to move," he continues, "and this overwhelming boredom."

"Your parents never clarified the origin of that accident?" asks John curiously.

"That's the worst part," mutters Sherlock. "Everything about that stay I had to deduce myself," he grimaces. "I used to believe that it was a car accident, that I ran into the road following my dog, Redbeard," he pauses and absentmindedly rubs his chin over the baby's downy head.

"But?" John prompts him gently as he's trying to not remember the dream he had.

"We never had a dog," says Sherlock blankly. "Daddy is allergic, badly enough for the dog to be a problem rather than an inconvenience if it lived with us. There was a dog and it was called Redbeard but it belonged to another kid I used to play with. Couldn't remember him until recently… Probably a traumatic association with the accident or a separate issue, I'm not sure. The last…" he grimaces.

"You felt as if the last binge triggered something," finishes John. "Opened a door to which you didn't have access before."

"I'm not going to repeat it," says Sherlock quickly, too quickly for John to like it. "Anytime soon or ever for that matter. Willingly at the very least," he mutters. "The hell that comes after a high isn't worth it."

"I'm glad to hear that," sighs John. "Why did you do that?"

He asks before he can stop himself. He has his suspicions but part of him wants to hear it from the man himself.

Sherlock lowers his head and looks at the baby in his arms as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. The baby coos at the attention and swats his beard. It looks ridiculous on him but weirdly it fits his attire and the whole picture of exhausted father that has no energy to shave while running after the baby.

It's not a true picture. The baby had been there for maybe a few hours at the most. She couldn't be there when Mrs Hudson checked up on Sherlock around four before she left because if she was then Mrs Hudson would have addressed her presence during the phone call.

"You…" Sherlock starts and swallows, "you aren't going to like the answer."

"I didn't like seeing you like this," sighs John.

"But you did, see me, I mean," sighs Sherlock. "Which is more…" his voice cracks. "If I could I would do everything to change what happened. Everything. But I couldn't, I can't…" he chokes. "I know that it's not what you want…"

The shame that fills him up nearly floods him.

"I'm sorry," whispers John.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," says Sherlock earnestly. "It was my fault. All of it. I made a vow."

John shakes his head and absentmindedly pats Rosie's leg.

"So did I," he sighs finally. "And mine unlike yours was sanctioned by the Anglican church," he snorts softly before he clears his throat. "I, John, take you Mary, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish; from this day forward until death do us part," he recites on practically one breath.

"I heard it," says Sherlock softly. "I was there."

"At least yours was sincere," sighs John.

"And yours wasn't?" asks Sherlock with a frown.

"I thought that it was," grimaces John. "And therein lies the problem. I thought that I knew the woman I married. I thought that we were on the same page on certain subjects," he pats Rosie's leg again. "I will never regret having Rosie but if we really talked about having children she most probably wouldn't be there."

"You never wanted to have children?" asks Sherlock softly.

"Not wanted as much as not planned to have them," sighs John. "My parents were terrible role models. They married too young and were ill-equipped in how to work as a married couple as much as parents. It wasn't so bad when Dad was in the army but after he was discharged," he grimaces. "I won't bore you to death with the details but they both eventually lost their rights to rising me and Harry. Aunt Katherine took us in after, she and my grandfather were the only ones that gave a damn but he couldn't do much and Harry…" he grimaces. "Children wasn't something I was thinking about when I was a young adult. I had Harry, med-school and the army to worry about. Then there were my relationships…" he grimaces. "None of them got serious enough or lasted long enough for me to consider marriage, let alone having children."

"I hate to point out that you can have one without the other," says Sherlock quietly.

"Point," snorts John softly. "But I was always paranoid about it and the very few accidents that happened I was very careful to ensure that they would lead to nothing," he adds grimly. "And each and every one of them had ended whatever relationship in which it happened. Apparently, my unwillingness to accept that 'happy'," he accents the word, "accidents happen and their consequences was enough of a proof that I wasn't committed enough," he grimaces. "And with Mary… I just assumed that at her age, if she really wanted to have children then she would surely have one by the time I met her. Well, as we learned the hard way there was a lot of things, I didn't know about her when I married her."

"Sorry," sighs Sherlock.

"I'm not," shrugs John. "I'm not sorry about having my blinders torn away. What I'm sorry for is that you had to nearly die in the process."

"It wasn't that bad," says Sherlock with a grimace.

"Bad doesn't even cover that," mutters John sourly. "You were flatlining for hours, Sherlock. The doctors working on you actually gave up," he whispers. "I don't know what kind of a miracle you pulled or how many of your cat lives you used up back then but within a week from that you gave yourself a heart-attack. Then few months later you gave yourself a nearly lethal overdose."

"It wasn't…" Sherlock starts.

"And now this," John interrupts him. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock. This isn't a risk that comes with the job. It's not a whoops I miscalculated and got myself stabbed in the arm or got myself brained on a mantlepiece," he adds fiercely and pauses for a deeper breath before he continues. "One day help will come too late, one day your hand will slip and you will be dead. Not much of a problem for you since you'll be dead but let me tell you this, Sherlock. Your death doesn't happen to you, it happens to all the people you leave behind who have to figure out how they're going to live their lives without you in it. I lived through it once and let me tell you one thing, just one thing. The only thing that kept me from following you was the thought that if I had, if I took my own life back then was that if I did it, then I would be admitting that you were a fraud…"

"John," whispers Sherlock. "You never…"

"Followed through?" finishes John grimly. "No, but I came pretty damn close. Sleeping pills and whisky," he grimaces. "I miscalculated the dosage once. Would have probably succeeded if Greg didn't choose to come around to pick some of the old notes. He called the ambulance and pulled whatever favour he had left to keep it from my official records. He took my gun away after that. Guilty tripped me to the hell and back too. That's how it works Sherlock, if you go down, I go down with you."

"You have Rosie," whispers Sherlock. "You wouldn't do that to her."

John snorts before he whispers, "Would I? I kept handing her over to everyone who offered to take her and few people that didn't. Few hours first, then a day, then two. Before I realised, I was seeing my own daughter on weekends and several times I caught myself wondering with whom she was on the day when I was supposed to pick her up. What kind of a father does it make me, Sherlock?"

"A grieving one," says Sherlock softly after a brief moment of hesitation.

"A lousy one," snorts John. "As involved as my own mother became at some point. And the drinking? That's more down my father's alley. But unlike both of them I had enough sense left in me that by the time I started thinking about acquiring sleeping pills instead of guilty tripping one of my colleagues into writing a prescription I started looking for a therapist," he adds sourly. "You're right, I can't do it to Rosie but in the darkest hours I keep thinking that she would have been better off without me."

"Preposterous idea," objects Sherlock vehemently. "You're the best person I know."

"If I'm the best person you know then I'm really worried about what kind of people you do know," says John with a sigh. "Then again, I know some of them and I know that some of them do deserve that adjective far more than I do."

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but John doesn't let him say anything.

"That's why I couldn't let you in," he says heavily. "You built me up into someone I'm not, Sherlock. A kind, decent, forgiving human being with a clear moral compass. I'm not that guy, I never had been. I'm spiteful, I keep grudges, I have a hair-trigger temper, I live in a constant fear of turning into my father but for most of my life I did nothing to stop it," he pauses. "I led the mother of my daughter into a suicide and when she was dying in my arms, I did nothing to help her. More so, I dared to feel relieved that she was dead and instead of acting like a decent…" he pauses to clear his throat, "semi-decent human being about it I took it out on the only person who was trying to help."

Sherlock swallows audibly before he says, "You loved Mary."

"I loved the idea of Mary," admits John softly. "The stability she represented, one that I desperately needed at the time and I… I thought that I loved her," he sighs. "But it wasn't her that I loved, it was the image she presented and that Mary died the very moment she turned her gun on you and pulled the trigger. That Mary died by her own hand back then, she died again in the aquarium, this time for real," he pauses to take a deep breath. "You're the most perceptive man I know. Other people?" he pauses. "I could con other people into believing that I was grieving but you? If I let you through that door you would have seen right through me and I couldn't let that happen. All you needed was one look at that man and you would have seen what I saw in the mirror."

"A man with a complicated marriage," says Sherlock softly.

"A lingering ghost of Hamish Watson," whispers John. "A monster that murdered his wife."

"Your dad?" asks Sherlock softly. "Your mum?"

John nods slowly.

"How?" asks Sherlock as he leans forward. "When?"

"Bludgeoned her to death with his bare hands one day. He showed up drunk to work and they let him go. So, he returned home early and found her packing her bags because Harry finally managed to convince her to move away from him and fill for a divorce," answers John grimly. "He's up for a parole this year and I'm fervently hoping that on the day of the parole hearing he'll have a massive heart-attack."

"I can always convince Mycroft to find a way to ship him off to Australian Outback," offers Sherlock earnestly. "He won't be coming within a mile of Rosie or you."

"Or them," adds John as he points from the girl in Sherlock's arms to the screen. "We neglected them for too long. She's your daughter, isn't she?"

Sherlock sighs heavily as he runs circles over the girl's back.

"That's the only logical explanation," he admits. "Considering her age. Mummy had me at thirty-one and in theory in the following nineteen years she could have another child…" he pauses and scratches his beard with his right hand. "In fact, I believe that she might have another child after me but…"

"It isn't a girl," says John before he can stop himself.

Sherlock blinks at him as he opens and closes his mouth.

"Why did you say that?" he asks finally.

"Something Mycroft said while you were running around London," admits John. "It didn't sit right with me when I first heard it but I dismissed it until I came here from the hospital. He kept denying it but something in his body language kept throwing me off."

"What he said exactly?" asks Sherlock pensively.

"The fact that I'm his brother changes absolutely nothing. It didn't the last time and I assure you it won't be… with Sherlock," John says trying his best to emulate Mycroft's words in tone and cadence.

Sherlock frowns and he says slowly, "You got a brother from just that?"

"Could have been a sister," John concedes with a grimace. "Extremely sexist of me to assume that considering that I married a female assassin but…"

"Instinctual," Sherlock interrupts him. "You probably never had a chance to see Mycroft around females, aside of Mary and even that was for a very brief period of time. It's not a wonder that your mind took a leap in that direction," he adds quickly and pauses. "It might be a correct one but…" he grimaces. "It's all muddled, I can't tell what's a memory, what's a dream and what's a hallucination. What I'm sure of is that when I met Redbeard for the first time, I was accompanied by an adult male but it couldn't have been Daddy…" he pauses. "Then there's this weird age gap. My parents got married in 1964 when Mummy was eighteen years old but Mycroft wasn't born until 1970."

"That doesn't have to mean anything," suggests John. "Maybe they wanted to be responsible about having children."

"Or maybe they had to get married so early," says Sherlock simply. "Their marriage was a mésalliance. The Holmes family was upper middle class, there were some tittles attached to it as well as some properties but I never paid attention to that because it wasn't going to affect me in the least and even if certain circumstances did change Mummy was the last one of the four children and most of her siblings procreated before she got married. Daddy on the other hand was a penniless soldier that spent his earnings on supporting his grandmother in rising his younger siblings during the periods when his father wouldn't bother to do so. The last thing he needed at the time in the terms of a financial responsibility was a young wife."

"Point," admits John. "Down to earth but a valid reason."

"Late 1962 or 1963 to early 1964," says Sherlock. "That would make him about thirteen to fifteen by the time I was born. Depending on his character and willingness to participate in looking after me he would have been anyone from an occasional minder to another parental figure. Especially if there was another one after me. But that gap couldn't be this big," he motions at the screen. "I would notice it if Mummy got pregnant after I left the hospital so if she had, if there was another child after me it had to be a baby by the time when I ended in hospital."

"Why do you believe that there was another baby after you?" asks John gently.

Sherlock grimaces before he says softly, "Rosie."

"What about her?" John prompts him.

"Her name," sighs Sherlock. "It kept bothering me, it jarred for some reason. I thought that it was because of Mary and her complete disregard for your choices but maybe it went deeper than that. It never bothered me in adult women or girls my age when I was growing up but the moment my mind was presented with concept of a baby Rose it started to jar."

"As if someone showed you a door you couldn't access before," offers John. "What if it's her?" he asks as he nods towards the screen.

"It could be," agrees Sherlock slowly. "But I don't know," he shakes his head. "If my age estimation is right and it should be because that's the only point…" he pauses. "She would have to be born between April 1995 and March 1996," he points at the screen.

"That's a very narrow gap," says John.

"That's the only point in my life when I had sex with anyone that I could have gotten pregnant," says Sherlock grimly.

"That's oddly specific," says John slowly.

"It was an oddly specific period of time in my life," sighs Sherlock. "I don't remember the starting point," he pauses. "The only thing about it that I remember is that at one point it was beginning of the summer and I was at school and the next…" he grimaces, "I was on the streets and the seasons changed. I didn't pay attention to that at the time, I can't even recall if the first things I remember from being on the streets happened during one day or over a longer period of time. What I do remember is the ever-present fear of being followed and the inkling that if I got found something bad would happen."

"Drug induced psychosis?" offers John softly.

"Possibly," agrees Sherlock. "So, I kept moving. I panhandled when I could but it didn't give much. Worked menial jobs that could be done quickly if someone was brave enough to offer them to me," he pauses and looks at his feet. "But for most of the time I the easiest money I made…" he pauses again.

John knows what's coming. His own situation never got so bad for him to end on the streets but as a doctor he learned enough from some of the less fortunate patients to guess what poverty and craving for drugs can do to a person. There's no sanctity when all you crave is another dose and you cannot afford it. Turning to petty crime? Not a problem. Turning to selling your body on the streets? Occasionally you get lucky and you are still alive and unharmed, get money and even get off.

The thought of Sherlock, so young, so desperate for an illusion of respite which drugs would provide him is physically painful and he finds himself shifting in his seat slightly and shifting Rosie to his other knee so he can hold her with his left hand while his right one reaches for Sherlock's left arm that's curled around the other girl.

"It's okay," he says softly. "You don't have to say it."

Sherlock looks at him as he slowly lowers his arm to place it on his left tight and suddenly, he looks so painfully young and lost.

"I do," he says finally. "There's no nice way of saying it though," he adds softly. "I was a crack-whore, John," he whispers. "And I wasn't a very picky one either. It didn't matter what and with whom as long as by the end of it I got the money I needed. Occasionally, if I got lucky, I got off too. Drugs or money for drugs was the only thing that mattered. Kinks or protection?" he grimaces as he looks down at their hands. "Kinks paid better than standard sexual acts. Women paid better than men but required more effort and time to get there and because of that they weren't always worth the hassle. Why bother with it when in the same amount of time I could make at least the same amount of money if not more by servicing men. But they still happened when money was good enough and it was a slow night," he pauses and tentatively looks up at John.

John squeezes his arm gently, hoping that it will be taken as a reassuring gesture.

"I never said it either because by the time we'd met it didn't matter anymore and at first I assumed that you worked it out on your own but…" Sherlock pauses for a moment. "Apparently it needs to be said otherwise you will keep wallowing under a mistaken and slightly deluded notion that I find anything other than Irene Adler's brain fascinating. My personal preferences always lied with men and the only women I had been with never came close to her type. And even then, I had to work myself into it mentally to have sex with them," he says before he grimaces and adds, "I'm trying to find something in her that couldn't possibly come from me but…"

"Maybe I should let her finish what she has to say," offers John.

"Good idea," sighs Sherlock as he slowly moves his arm so John's hand slides over it to rest on his hand.

Subconsciously John grips it and he feels Sherlock's fingers curl around his own as he moves his left hand just far enough to un-pause the video.

The woman, young girl, in the video continues to look straight into the camera before she lowers her eyes down for a moment as she takes a deep breath and raises her head again so she's once again looking to the camera.

"Hi Dad," she says finally, her voice cracking slightly as Sherlock beside him draws in a shaky breath as she quickly looks down again before she looks up and this time there's some fierce determination in her face. "That wasn't as hard as I thought it would be," she says quickly and pauses. "So, let's start again," she gives a quick smile to the camera. "Hi, Dad. Without a doubt you have questions and I hazard a guess that they aren't only about my opening statement."

She pauses again and quirks her left eyebrow before she continues, "You probably want to verify it yourself. So, I'm going to give you a quick summary of things which you need to know about me," she pauses for a moment. "My name is Daisy Violet Jones and according to my birth certificate I was born on 13th May 1995 in London to Magnolia Desdemona Wellington-Jones and James Winston Jones," she says. "It's also a load of bollocks," she adds with a snort. "That birth certificate is a fake one because in no way it takes into account that at the time I was born aforementioned Magnolia Desdemona Wellington-Jones no longer had a uterus to use and by my estimations for about two years prior to my birth."

She pauses again and taps the fingers of her left hand on the railing of the crib.

"What they did have at the time was a teenage daughter by the name of Lilac Violet Jones," she continues and sighs. "I don't know the details, I was never privy to them but what I did find out was that when I was about month old under the influence of drugs, she committed a suicide by throwing herself from the roof of a high building," she pauses and looks down for a moment. "People," she pauses again and shakes her head, "people who knew her when really pressed about it said that it wasn't unexpected. Just being raised by my mother would have been enough to make a normal person question their sanity," she snorts. "But her situation was worse than that. Depending from the sources at the age of seventeen she either ran away from school with a boy from a neighbour school and turned up by the New Year of 1995 as a complete mess. The other and that's the version I actually managed to verify, though not without a lot of prying from my part and a lot of assuming…" she pauses and draw a shaky breath before she continues, "is that she was kidnapped and the boy that had been taken with her was taken as a collateral damage."

John can hear Sherlock drawing in another shaky breath.

"I don't know what happened in the meantime," she says. "What I do know is that if you press a certain umbrella wielding twerp, he might give you more information than I was privy to," she adds and grimaces. "Oh yes, he was around," she snorts. "Always hovering on the periphery of my life, using whatever ruse he could think of to come close enough to ask about my opinions about the quality of my schooling or safety of me and my peers, like some sort of a bureaucratic fairly godfather," she pauses and sneers. "Hardly fairy and much less of a godfather," she sneers. "Had he been truly interested in me and quality of the life I lived he wouldn't let me remain in that house after my fa… the man I called my father died."

She sneers again, pauses to shift her jaw few times and takes a deep breath before her expression softens slightly.

"Uncle I-Know-Better aside," she says. "You're welcome to take your grievances with him," she pauses and smirks. "Shove that umbrella up his arse and open it or knock his teeth out. I would really appreciate it. Trust me on that, whatever it would be he had it coming for a very long time."

John cannot resist snorting to that statement.

"But this isn't about him," she keeps talking, her voice softening slightly. "This is about you and me as you probably figured it out already," she pauses before she looks down and smiles softly at the crib. "Well, not just you and me," she amends herself and smiles again. "Her name is Josephine and I was informed that it was a name of one my great-grandmothers but that's not why I've chosen it. I just liked its meaning and I really wanted to be done with that flower naming business. Though to be fair her second name is Daisy because I had to come up with something because the alternatives I was offered as tempered suggestions were mostly horrid and after twenty hours of labour I wasn't really at the peak of my creativity."

John finds himself smiling at the statement. Even though the two of them probably never met Daisy she has so much of Sherlock in her, not just in her looks but also in her open disdain towards Mycroft that it warms his heart as much as it makes it ache for her and Sherlock.

"She was born on 19th January 2015 in London," she continues. "And from what I've been informed she shares her birthday with your goddaughter. Though to be fair she decided to be born five minutes after midnight rather than five minutes before it," she adds and smirks before the expression sobers. "Her father is irrelevant," she sighs. "I know that it makes me a hypocrite," she grimaces, "but I would burn the whole world before I would allow that sleazy scumbag to come within ten feet of my daughter."

She looks down into the crib.

"That brings me to the whole point of all of this," she adds softly before she raises her head and looks directly into the camera. "Because if you're watching this video rather than talking to me directly it means that I'm…" she pauses and then very slowly adds, "probably gone."

John's heart jumps to his throat and pummels down into his stomach and he squeezes Sherlock's hand. But he cannot bring himself to look at Sherlock's face because he cannot tear his eyes from Daisy.

"The life I lived," Daisy continues, "was complicated and at one point I traded a bad situation into one that I hoped that it would be better," she grimaces. "It wasn't. It took me some time to realise that I traded one ugliness for another and what was even worse…" she pauses and takes a deep breath. "I didn't want my child to grow up with this, not the same type of hell in which I grew up," she sighs. "That's why…" her voice breaks and a tear slips down her cheek.

John can feel his eyes beginning to sting.

"This isn't an admission of guilt," sighs Daisy. "Unless we're talking about naivety because I was naïve as fuck," she snorts. "I just wanted to give you something which has been denied to you and because I believe that unlike that umbrella wielding twerp you will make the right choices," she adds softly. "Most probably when you're watching this you already have Josie with you," she pauses. "So, here it is, I'm not trying to put any pressure on you to decide what happens next. I'm not expecting you to take her and raise her," she pauses. "But the choice about what happens to her next is yours to make, Dad. I won't hold it against you if you chose to give her up," she pauses again and smiles sadly. "If you do, there's one thing I have to ask of you. Make sure that whoever takes her will treat her right and that when the right time comes, she would be able to have some few mementos of me. Some of them should be included in her things and some of them can be retrieved by Uncle I-Know-Better. Make sure that they will cherish her and that they would allow her to become whomever she would want to be. It would mean a lot to me."

The pause that comes after that is longer and the silence both in the video and in the flat heavy.

"But on the bright side maybe my sheer dumb luck managed to hold this time," she says suddenly with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "It held in so far," she grimaces. "I can only hope and maybe if it had we will have a chance to talk in person," she pauses and grimaces. "That would be one very awkward conversation, especially about certain decisions I made. But as awkward as I think it could get, I still hope that we will have that chance. But…" she pauses, "if it doesn't happen, I just want you to know that I never held you responsible for choices that were made by people who led my mother into suicide and who also ensured that I never met you."

She remains quiet for a moment before she snorts, "They certainly ripped off the benefits of that as if they bloody deserved them. My little pet, so smart and so talented," she sneers the last sentence. "Well, she reaped what she sow and died what I hope was a very painful and very lonely death, as it should have been. I have no regrets in that regard," she pauses before she adds. "For the record I didn't kill her, she was just stupid enough to ignore the signs of a breast cancer until it was too late," brief pause. "That's another thing you should include in the need to know package for Josie."

"As for the rest, it should be available with the umbrella wielding twerp," she says. "That's all he's good at, collecting data," she adds and grimaces. "And maybe procuring better false identities than the ones I had the access to. Josie was finally registered as Josephine Daisy O'Kelly. It's something you might find useful but necessary to change before you will go forward with whatever you will chose to do about her," she sighs. "Just one thing, I know that I almost certainly lost the right to ask that but could you make sure that at least one of her real names will stay with her?" she pauses. "It doesn't have to be as a first one but I think that one day she would like to have one as one of them."

Off camera Josie in the video starts fussing and Daisy bends over the crib to sooth her. The next minute or two are filled with gentle shushing noises until Josie quiets and Daisy straightens.

She looks directly into the camera, smiles sadly as she whispers, "Goodbye Dad" and reaches out to turn off the camera.


	3. Chapter 3

_Being sorry for myself is a luxury I can't afford._

_~Stephen King_

**Sherlock**

_Goodbye Dad._

The very moment she comes into the screen he knows who is she even though he doesn't know her name. The semblance is uncanny and doesn't look very flattering on her just as much as it doesn't look flattering on him. He wasn't exactly beaten with an ugly stick, he knows people who got worse luck in the gene pool than he did but he does know how he looks like. In his teenage years awkwardly unproportioned, too gangly and too feminine to fit well with his male peers and too boyish to fare well in his contacts with girls his age. Not quite here, not quite there and definitely gay as it turned out quite early on.

She almost looks like him at that age. The hair is different, hers is blue and his… it used to be some sort of an awkward semi-military mohawk which with the curly top looked ridiculous but didn't require out of him a lot of attention.

At the same time he accepts what he sees and violently rebels against it because he would have known, he should have known. That's why he kept drawing out the moment when John resumed playing the video for as long as possible, throwing in distractions from left and right.

But it couldn't be avoided and now he's in a new reality in which his daughter, his adult daughter that grew up without him, thrust into his arms her own daughter and told him to decide her future.

How I'm supposed to make that choice?

_Goodbye Dad._

How I'm supposed to know what would be better for her?

_Goodbye Dad._

And how did Mycroft… How that fat, sleazy bastard managed to keep the fact that I had a daughter away from me? What was he trying to achieve?

What was she trying to achieve?

Something stupid probably, he can almost hear Mycroft's voice in his ear. After all she's your daughter and when it comes to people you love and their safety you completely lose your marbles. The apple didn't have fallen too far away from the apple tree, Sherlock. The only difference between you and her is that you thrust your most important person in the world into the hands of an assassin and she did that to a detective.

"There's still time," he hears himself saying and he finally refocuses himself in the present, Josie a solid weigh in his lap and John's hand still in his.

He blinks and looks at John who at the same time is trying to balance slightly squirming Rosie on his knees while holding his phone to his ear in his left hand and Sherlock's hand in his right.

Not good, he thinks and he lets go John's hand as he reaches for Rosie who happily accepts his attention.

"Mycroft?" he asks John when he settles Rosie in his lap.

"The calls are going straight to voicemail," mutters John grimly. "I already left one," he adds and grimaces before he lowers the phone, disconnects the call and pulls the camera app.

He rewinds the video on mute until he can find a moment in which Daisy's face is the most visible and snaps a photo of her. Quickly he checks the quality of it before he attaches the photo to a message in a thread which Sherlock can't quite catch from the distance and the angle but he assumes it's Greg. Then he calls that number.

"Hi Greg," says John quickly. "I'm calling because I need to report a missing person," he adds and then looks at Sherlock. "Actually no," he adds. "I sent you a picture that needs to be distributed to all police officers. I'm hoping that it's the most recent photo, the hair colour might change since it stands out. Probably will be something dark but might as well use caps or any head covers. I don't have a lot of physical details," he pauses. "Try to find something about Daisy Violet Jones, born 13th May 1995 or Daisy O'Kelly, probably a similar date…" sudden and long pause. "You sure?" another pause, longer one this time. "We will met you at the Yard later, there's something we need to check first. Bye."

"What we're checking?" asks Sherlock as he raises.

In the video he spot nothing that would provide Daisy's probable location.

"A hunch," answers John with a grimace. "Mrs H couldn't have left at a worse time," he mutters and grimaces again. "Hopefully we won't find anything dangerous. She couldn't have that big head-start," he adds as he picks Rosie from him and heads to the kitchen.

Sherlock follows him and asks, "How big?"

"Josie wasn't there at around four when Mrs H checked on you," says John as he's trying to wrestle Rosie into her fluffy romper.

"I woke around half past five," he supplies as he watches John.

"Get her dressed," John tells him. "And put your winter shoes on."

"Why?" he asks from the living-room as he picks Josie's coat from the hook and throws it on the sofa.

"Because you will need them," John answers.

"That's maddeningly unhelpful," he mutters into Josie's hair as picks her up from the sling.

She gets into the coat, cap and scarf without a fuss and as he turns around John is handing him baby shoes. He helps him put them on and put her back in the sling.

"We don't have a second car-seat for her so you will have to sit in the back with them and slightly slouched on that," says John. "Shoes," he tells him, "I will met you in the car," he adds as he's starting to walk away.

The ride is mostly quiet, interrupted only by cooing, gurgling and grunting of two little girls. Josie isn't very happy about being wrapped into his coat on the top of her own outwear and Rosie isn't very happy about being left alone in the car-seat.

He attempts to keep both of them distracted by tickling each of them in turns while his mind flies to his daughter.

Out of immediate shock it's slightly easier to accept it, he has a daughter, and a granddaughter that's strapped to his chest.

What have you gotten yourself into? What sort of tight spot Mycroft couldn't get you out? Because he knew that you existed, he knew about you, he watched over you, the filthy hypocrite.

That startles him enough of his train of thoughts to pick up his phone and he proceeds to call Mycroft. It goes to voicemail. So does the other and the one after that. He starts texting instead.

_It's over._

_I can't do it anymore._

_Look after John and Rosie and take care of Mummy and Daddy._

It's petty. He knows it but he will use Mycroft's concern to get that bloody ponce to pick up his freaking phone.

Except nothing happens. His phone doesn't ring and neither does John's.

"Try, I'm going to blow up Buckingham Palace if your way isn't working," offers John suddenly.

He considers it for a moment and grimaces before he answers, "That would get us arrested within five minutes for treason. Really counterproductive right now."

"I asked Irene Adler for her hand and she said yes," suggests John.

"He doesn't know that she's isn't dead and I would like to keep it that way," he mutters. "Less problems for me and more for a French equivalent of Mycroft."

"Take mine then," says John as he throws it to him. "Write something about death caused by autoerotic asphyxiation or something."

He does, except he trades autoerotic asphyxiation for being dead and covered in a gold body paint. After a moment he throws in a comment about an appearance of something that looks like a stolen Picasso and that bloody black pearl of Borgia's.

More minutes trickle by as John drives until he suddenly says, "Police car heading our way, turn you face from the window and try your best to appear pregnant."

"You realise that I have a beard, don't you?" he asks but he tugs on his scarf to cover his face and turns his face away from the window. "Also, it's one of the most ridiculous statements I heard from you," he adds just as he notes that the police car is finally behind them.

About two or three minutes later John takes a turn right and parks on the street of two storey brownstones, then he walks around the car and after rummaging through the diaper-bag he pulls out Rosie's carrier.

"Are you sure?" asks Sherlock, trying to keep scepticism from his voice as he unbuckles himself.

"Are you going to sit in the car?" counters John.

"No," answers Sherlock as he gets out.

While he does that John puts Rosie in a carrier which doesn't take a lot of time before he straps the carrier backwards so Rosie ends up on his back. She doesn't look too amused about it but at least she isn't fussing.

"Are you sure it's wise?" asks Sherlock.

"The wisest wouldn't be bring them at all but we don't exactly have that option, do we?" admits John as he goes to the boot and opens it.

He picks up a tyre level, closes the boot and locks the car. Luckily for the miniscule part of Sherlock's brain that flashes to that day at Baker Street when one of Magnussen's henchmen pulled a tyre level from John's trousers he doesn't stick it into his trousers.

Nope, not a good time or place to think about that, he shakes his head.

"Where we're going?" he asks when he catches up with John who walks in sure, long strides.

"Following a hunch," says John.

"Care to elaborate?" he presses.

"Not yet," answers John. "I would say that turnabout is a fair play but that would mean that I'm hundred percent sure that I'm right and I might not be," he adds.

"You know that place," says Sherlock, it's an obvious deduction.

"I think that I know it, I might be wrong," replies John.

They pass next three brownstones before John suddenly stops in front of the fourth one. He eyes the door with a suspicious look on his face and after a moment he pulls the keys from his pocket.

It's quite a big bunch. Separated in sets on individual rings attached to a big one. One for his flat, one for Baker Street, one for Bart's (probably his locker and a copy to the door of his office), one probably for Harry's flat. But there's another set on it which over the years Sherlock didn't manage to match to anything lockable by keys while John lived at Baker Street.

John picks one from the ring and without a problem opens the front door before he walks inside.

Curious, thinks Sherlock as he follows him inside and locks the front door.

The house rather than one big, well, somewhat big living space appears to be divided into two individual flats. John shows no interest in the door on their right and heads up the stairs with Sherlock at his heals.

Upstairs on the tiny landing John stops in front of the door before he starts fiddling with another key.

To their mutual surprise the door opens and John quickly steps inside.

Even from over John's back and through a tiny sneeze-and-you-will-knock-yourself-on-the-furniture-or-the-door corridor Sherlock can see the bright yellow walls of the room on the right.

John quickly steps into the room and takes a deep breath.

"Bloody Mycroft," he breaths out.

"John," presses Sherlock. "Where are we?"

"My old bedsit," answers John sourly. "The one I lived before I moved to Baker Street. I can't believe his audacity," he adds grimly. "Stick her here, with a baby. I'm definitely going to knock his teeth out."

His comment registers with Sherlock but barely.

The place looks much the same as it did in the video. The furniture looks exactly the same and are standing exactly in the same places. The only different thing that's about it is that the wall over the mantelpiece is covered with photos of a singular man in various circumstances and surroundings.

It's hard to estimate his height from the photos and not exactly familiar surroundings but from what Sherlock can see he appears to be taller than most people that surround him. In one of the few close ups he's looking towards the camera. His hair are very dark, bordering on black and wavy, reaching the edge of his jaw, his eyes in the photograph seem green.

"Flann MacNamara," says John tearing Sherlock away from his examination.

When he looks at him John is holding one of the photos in his hand but on the reverse side.

"Lieutenant in Cormac O'Callaghan's Mic Na Héireann," reads John. "Past infor. for Garda National DOCB. Double-crosser. That's underlined. Extortion. Money laundering. Drugs. Weapons. Human-trafficking. Ties with CIA, MI5, MI6 and who knows what else. Still breathing. EP," he rattles and then breaths out, "Christ."

Like I said, he can hear Mycroft whisper in his ear.

Mic Na Héireann. Sons of Ireland. Not as dangerous as Moriarty's Irish network and a rivalling gang to it actually that had some sort of mutual nonaggression pact with it as long as both kept to 'what's northern stays northern and what's southern stays southern' philosophy of not getting into each other's ways.

They weren't his problem in the past and their members refused to be exploited in his attempts to destroy Moriarty's network. After few tries he switched tactics and convinced a rivalling northern gang into taking care of what was left of Moriarty's Irish network and both had been taken care of by Mycroft's men eventually.

What ties could Daisy have to Mic Na Héireann enough to be able to list MacNamara's crimes?

"The life I lived," says Daisy in his memory, "was complicated and at one point I traded a bad situation into one that I hoped that it would be better. It wasn't. It took me some time to realise that I traded one ugliness for another."

Escaped from her mo… grandmother's care at some point. Mycroft's control too. Had to be pretty clever about it to not get caught immediately otherwise Mycroft would have dragged her back home pretty fast.

When? How? Where to?

Ireland most probably if she knew enough about MacNamara. But when it would be most convenient time for her to do so? When Mycroft was otherwise occupied obviously. That doesn't exactly narrow down the timeframe because when that plonker wasn't glued to his chair he was always up to something.

Was it during the early days of decimating of Moriarty's network? Or later? Japan or Russia or Serbia. Too many possibilities. He needs a timeframe.

"Sherlock," John's voice tears him from his thoughts.

"Yes?" he asks, barely keeping the annoyance from his voice.

"We're going to the Yard," says John as he holds up the photo.

"Why?" he asks. "Everything is here."

"No," John shakes his head. "It isn't. All that's here is what she wanted us to see. You saw it yourself. There were no signs of struggle. The doors weren't forced. She left this place under her own steam and willingly," he continues. "And Greg…" he pauses, "everything is at the Yard."

"What you're not telling me?" he presses insistently.

"Daisy Violet Jones disappeared from Heathrow on 6th June 2013," says John. "She was supposed to board a plane to Vienna for some kind of violinist contest. Never made it to Vienna and as far as MET is concerned she never left the airport. Just vanished into thin air."

"No one can vanish into thin air, don't be absurd," he mutters.

"Well, she had," shrugs John. "At least well enough that she was never found. Not officially at the very least. According to Greg to these days Daisy Jones remains as officially missing, presumed dead," explains John.

"And?" he presses.

"Greg might have something on MacNamara when we will get there," adds John. "He says that he knows where to look."

"Who investigated her disappearance?" asks Sherlock. "Surely he disclosed that detail."

"DI Adam Hughes, some young upstart that got transferred from Belfast in February 2013. Went back to Belfast by the end of September 2013, supposedly due some family problems. I hazard a guess that Mycroft had some hand in that," explains John.

"Can Greg schedule a call?" asks Sherlock.

"Unfortunately no," grimaces John. "In March 2014 Hughes was fatally shot by an unknown offender that to these day remains uncaught. It was speculated that he started digging too deep in some gang related murders and that the price was put on his head."

"That's very curious," mutters Sherlock.

"Mycroft?" asks John.

"Not personally, no," grimaces Sherlock. "And if Mycroft was involved Hughes would have been found dead much sooner. Murder isn't exactly his style."

John grunts and blessedly he doesn't say, no, it's yours.

"What about the flat?" asks Sherlock. "We can't leave it like that," he adds.

"That never bothered you before," points out John.

"My daughter wasn't in the equation before," he retorts. "If it was Rosie you wouldn't rest…"

"Exactly, I wouldn't rest," John cuts him off. "This isn't resting, Sherlock. It's following a different lead. You do it all the time."

"But this is different," he says quickly. "We might still find something in here."

"Something you didn't spot already?" asks John. "What's in there Sherlock?

He looks wildly around the room. The flat is small, cluttered while clean, lived in. The desk is a mess, filled with books on pretty much everything from development of babies in first three years through organic cooking to books on music and notes. Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi, Monti, traditional music. Next to the desk there's a violin case.

He picks it up, places it on the desk and opens it. It's not a Stradivarius by any chance. She wouldn't be able to afford a one and even Mycroft wouldn't be very keen on handing her one, not as long as she lived here. He inspects it closely as he runs the list of affordable violins through his mind and then picks it up for closer inspection before he wedges it under his chin and runs the bow over the strings.

The sound causes some cooing that comes both from within his coat as much as from John's side of the room.

He smiles to himself at that and starts playing 'For Elise' which never failed to both put Rosie to sleep and then rouse her again depending on the tempo he played it.

The sound that fills the room is beautiful, clear and full. It's not a beginner violin or one for the immediate players. No, this a professional instrument. The boxes in his mind tick one after the other.

Ming Jiang Zhu. 905 or 909. No, 909. A very good quality instrument and well taken care of, loved even. Possibly a gift from the umbrella wielding twerp or something she purchased herself. Come to think about it if she was able to save money for 909 she most certainly wouldn't live in a bedsit. A gift then.

He's so concentrated on the violin and playing that the sight of John crouching to pick up something from the floor almost startles him.

"Siobhan M. 083 3388…." he reads. "That's Irish number," he adds.

"As if the name wasn't a good enough indicator," mutters Sherlock. "Irish criminal. Irish gangs. And now an unknown Irish number."

"Stinks like O'Shea's shoes after a three days of walking," says John sourly as he pulls out his phone and starts typing the number into it.

Once done he presses call but the call goes straight into voicemail.

Bloody voicemails. Does no one pick their phones anymore? Well with the exception of one DI?

"Let's go," says John.

"Okay," sighs Sherlock.

He returns the violin into the case, closes it and after a moment of hesitation he picks the case.

"Sherlock?" asks John gently.

"I'm not leaving it here at the mercy of whoever will come here," he says quickly. "Once she's back I can always return it…"

… and if she won't come back. It's still his daughter's violin. If this and Josephine is all that will be left of her…

He shakes his head. He can't think this way until he has evidence that says otherwise.

Daisy is out there somewhere and she's alive. She has to be, for Josie if not for him.

Be alive, he thinks. Be alive. Love your daughter fiercely enough to come back to her…

… and to me.

The ride to NSY stretches out painfully. Minutes tick by while they're stuck in the traffic. He tries to kill the passing time by trying to dial Siobhan's number interchangeably with Mycroft's and both keep going to voicemail.

Finally John parks the car in NSY underground garage (thanks to a parking pass which Greg one day just handed to John) and they head to the lifts.

As soon as they're on the ground level John dials Greg's number and asks, "We're in the building. Where are you?"

Greg's answer is too quiet for Sherlock to hear it but as soon as John presses the button to the second to the highest floors he knows that the situation is bad.

The top floor in NSY is reserved for the highest ranking officers, more politicians than actual police force that hadn't seen a solid day of policework since… well, since they got their positions.

But the one below it is Organised Crimes territory helmed by one Tommy Gregson. Their working relationship was not what one would call peaceful. They respected their mutual effectiveness but Gregson always had a problem with evidence that wasn't strictly speaking obtained legally so they tended to step on each other's toes quite a lot in the past until Gregson got the promotion to Organised Crimes. Overall it was a good riddance even though Gregson was a great detective. Ever since then if he required something from Gregson he used to use Greg as a messenger.

If Greg is waiting for them in Organised Crimes the situation is bad, very bad but he doesn't realise how bad it might be until the doors of the lift slide open and he sees a very grim looking Greg standing next to Gregson who looks just as grim.

"Sherlock, John," says Greg. "And that's…" he stops when his gaze slide over John who has Rosie in his arms and Sherlock who still has Josie in the sling.

"Long story," says John quickly. "Tell you later."

"Right," says Greg sceptically and gesticulates at Gregson. "Doctor John Watson, DCI Thomasina Gregson," he introduces them.

"And we will get along as long as you call me Tommy," she says as she shakes hands with John and then nods to Sherlock as she adds, "Holmes."

"Thomasina," he nods.

"Like I said," she sighs heavily. "Come on you two," she adds as she turns on her heel.

They follow here mutely through slightly empty open office space into her office at the other end of it. Unlike Greg's abode downstairs their arrival is mostly ignored aside from a curious peak from one or two officers that take notice of their boss and quickly return to work.

Gregson invites them in and locks the door behind her. The blinds facing the office are already closed.

"Do sit down," she says as she walks towards the desk, to Greg who is already leaning against the filling-cabinet behind it.

"Out with it, Tommy," says Sherlock as he sits down.

He dreads what she's going to say in a way he never dreaded anything before, not unless John was in danger. His stomach ties itself in knots, his palms are sweating, although that might be the heat in the room, Gregson always hated being cold.

He shrugs the coat from his shoulders but makes no move to hang it on the hanger.

"Daisy Jones," says John swiftly. "What do you know about her aside of what you told me earlier," he directs it at Greg.

"Tommy?" Greg prompts, he sounds exhausted even though it's not even noon and as far as Sherlock can say he didn't leave the Yard.

"You sure about that?" Gregson asks sceptically.

"Daisy Violet Jones, born 13 May 1995 to Magnolia Desdemona Wellington-Jones and James Winston Jones. Disappeared from Heathrow on 6th June 2013. Was supposed to board a 10:34 AM plane to Vienna and return within about two weeks. However she never stepped a foot on the plane and disappeared into thin air," says Greg tiredly.

"There's no such a thing as disappearance into thin air," counters Sherlock.

"We know that now," snorts Greg. "Hughes was an idiot and so was whoever was put on the case on the MI6 end. Finding her on tapes wasn't an easy task but a doable one with enough patience. Though I have to hand it to her the disguise she used was a good one. Her disappearance was planned and well executed. Unfortunately, the footage is nearly two years old and while I have a guy shifting through CCTV footage for now we don't have footage of what she had done after leaving Heathrow."

"And?" presses Sherlock.

"And I know, Sherlock," sighs Greg heavily.

"Of course you do, a moderately intelligent first grader would have reached the same conclusion," Sherlock practically spits.

"Tommy," mumbles Greg.

"We don't know what she was doing after leaving Heathrow but we do know where she eventually ended up," says Gregson quickly as she presses keys on the keyboard and at the TV screen behind her back appears an image.

It's a copy of an Irish driving licence issued to one Williamson, Scottie Maebh. Date of birth was adjusted from 1995 to 1994, month was still May but the day was listed as 26th. In the photograph Daisy hair were straight, light blonde and ending just below her chin.

"As you can see, it's a driving licence issued to Scottie Maebh Williamson. On 10th November 2013 she was caught speeding just outside of the town of Ennis by the usual Garda patrols. The car she was driving was 2007 Honda Civic registered to Flann MacNamara," she says quickly. "Predictably that put the patrol on high alert, especially after they got the confirmation that Scottie Williamson whose driving licence it was registered to turned out to be dead for about six months and sixty-four at the time."

"Why wasn't she arrested for identity theft then?" asks John before Sherlock has a chance to open his mouth.

"Because the car was registered to Flann MacNamara," answer Gregson. "They got orders from above to let her go. Since then Williamson was under the careful watch of the Garda's DOCB. She was obviously seen prior to that, according to my contact in Garda as early as early July 2013, but they were unsuccessful in obtaining her identity until that point without drawing attention to themselves. That," she waves towards the screen, "was pure dumb luck, nothing else. The licence was a fake but as sure as they were that it originated from Mic Na Héireann they were unable to locate her real name."

"Obviously it didn't occur to them to search for her outside of Ireland but at the time she wasn't considered as a foreigner. According to Tommy's contact her accent was impeccable and they assumed that she was one of the country girls that were so desperate to get away from their middle of nowhere lives that she latched on MacNamara the very moment she had the chance," continues Greg.

"Was it true?" asks Sherlock.

"MacNamara certainly latched on her," snorts Gregson. "From July 2013 until May 2014 she accompanied him to all the 'family'," she accents the word, "functions. In the beginning she appeared to be willing but the closer to May 2014 it got, the more at times she looked at MacNamara with such ferocity that their sitters made a note that one day MacNamara might wind up in a river missing both kidneys. Obviously she was doing that when no one else other than them was looking at her."

"It was around the time when the higher ups started pushing the idea of acquiring her as an informant but before they had a chance to approach her while MacNamara was otherwise occupied with his criminal activity she disappeared into thin air," adds Greg.

"Again," mutters John. "Until now."

Greg looks down at his shoes and Gregson sighs heavily.

"She is dead, isn't she?" whispers Sherlock and the words barely make it out of his throat.

"This," says Gregson as she presses another key and the image on the monitor changes from the fake driving licence to a big, spread out mansion, "is Cormac O'Callaghan's home in Cloughlea, County Clare. It's his family home as well as the place where his most faithful met to enjoy each other's company as much as plot their movements. The photograph in question was taken prior to 6th January, doesn't matter at which point. Now this," she presses another key and the image on the screen changes to a completely levelled ruins of a house, "was taken in the morning of 7th January 2016 day after O'Callaghan celebrated his 50th birthday in the company of his pals. Flann MacNamara was one of them."

"It had to be one hell of a party," mutters John.

"It was," agrees Gregson. "The explosion that levelled it out took place around 4:15 AM give or take a couple of minutes. According to the early reports most probably it was C-4. Their working theory was that it was gang related. O'Callaghan had many enemies and supposedly one of the smaller bosses got fed up with him and decided to send a message."

"Especially after, not so far away from the wreckage, they found one of lieutenants from an old Na Naoimh gang that over the past fifteen years dissolved into smaller gangs or attached themselves into other ones," adds Greg grimly as he rubs his beard before he takes a deep breath and says. "Her name was Siobhan Moran."

The image on the screen changes into headshot photography of a red-haired woman with a singular bullet wound on her forehead. But that isn't shocking, he stared at enough dead bodies to not find even the most gruesome deaths shocking.

It takes him a moment to take in her whole face but once he does he knows and he isn't surprised by John's shocked gasp from his left.

Lying on the slab is one Mary Morstan Watson aka Rosamund aka Siobhan Moran. Supposedly dead and buried two months ago. Now she's also dead and the bullet lodged into her brain had to surely kill her for good.

"Moran," whispers John.

"Yeah," grimaces Greg. "I would say that I'm sorry about that but actually I'm not."

"Ta for that," mutters John.

"You're welcome," sighs Greg. "She wasn't alone when she was found," he adds grimly. "A few feet away from her was found…" he pauses as another image joins Mary's on the screen.

It's a headshot photo of Daisy, hair blonde and curly, shorter than it was in the video. She too is lying on a slab but there aren't any wounds on her face that he can see.

His heart suddenly drops to his stomach and then jumps to his throat. He doesn't want to make that deduction although it's a very clear one.

"How?" asks John breathlessly.

"According to the notes we got from Garda they were both found on the grounds of O'Callaghan's house. Each had a gun lying by her body. Moran's gun was missing two bullets and Willamson's was only missing one," says Gregson. "All three bullets were accounted for with the corresponding wounds. According to preliminary examination of the crime scene Williamson was running ahead of Moran when Moran shot her in the right ankle. Williamson went down. It's hard to specify the amount of time that passed between the first shot and the following ones but their working theory is that both bullets were fired simultaneously or within split second of each other. Moran's bullet hit Williamson in the chest, Williamson's hit Moran dead on like you can see. According to the ME Williamson could have lived for another few minutes but eventually she bleed out."

"What was the exact location of the Williamson's wound," asks John weakly.

Gregson looks at the screen and reads out, "According to the autopsy report the bullet nicked one of her ribs, passed through the liver and punctured inferior vena cava. Bone fragments from the rib caused further internal bleeding by lodging themselves into her right lung, liver, pancreas and large intestine."

The report for some reason catapults John out of his chair and before Sherlock realises what's happening John is thrusting Rosie into Greg's arms and running out of the room.

John's reaction gets Sherlock in motion and he's springing out of the chair as he's already pulling Josie from the sling. He doesn't drop her in Gregson's lap but it's a near thing and with her brows raised questioningly she secures her hold on Josie but while she does that Sherlock is past caring and already following John who is disappearing behind the big long wall on the left side to the lifts.

The blessing of NSY building is that the layout on all the floors is the same and this particular section houses lavatories.

He finds John in the men's room, in the closest cubicle to the door, kneeling over the toilet and retching.

He crouches next to him and very slowly places his right arm on John's left shoulder. John doesn't shrug his hand off so Sherlock takes it as a good thing.

"It wasn't your fault," he tells him quietly because he knows what John is thinking. "It was her choice, John. No-one made her do it. You said it yourself, no-one could ever make her do anything she didn't want to do. She killed Daisy, not you."

John stops retching but keeps his head hanging before he suddenly shifts to the right and collapses against the wall of the cubicle. His face is ashen and there are beads of sweat on the top of his forehead. His breathing is slightly irregular but not dramatically so therefore it isn't a full blown panic attack.

Sherlock kneels down in front of him and places his right hand over John's left.

"It wasn't your fault, John," he repeats.

John takes a shaky breath that could pass for an attempt on a deep one and whispers, "You aren't seeing it, Sherlock. It's my fault, all of this is my fault."


	4. Chapter 4

_Cherish the friend who tells you a harsh truth, wanting ten times more to tell you a loving lie. _

_~Robert Brault_

**John**

He asks for the exact location of Daisy's wound on an autopilot and subconsciously he knows what Gregson is going to say before she says it.

Bullet nicked fifth costal cartilage, went through the liver and nicked inferior vena cava which together with fragments of cartilage that lodged themselves into internal organs caused massive internal bleeding.

Bullet nicked fifth costal cartilage, went through the liver and nicked inferior vena cava…

Fifth costal cartilage, liver, vena cava.

_Daisy._

_Sherlock._

_Moran._

'Colonel' Sebastian Moran.

Siobhan Moran. Wife or a sister? Sister or a wife?

How that bastard looked like?

Not too tall, Sherlock's height? Slightly lower? Not significantly taller than him. Stocky, muscled. The face. He needs to see his face. Black hair? No, that was his guard and Donegall shot him through the left tight and then into right lung. Moran. He needs Moran, he saw his file. Eyes? Hair? Christ, what he wouldn't give for Sherlock's nearly eidetic memory now.

Light-brown hair. Pale green eyes.

Sister more likely than a wife although who knows.

Professional assassin and a former gang member. A crack-shot.

Brother might not warrant this level of devotion in terms of extracting a long-time revenge although…

_Sherlock._

_Daisy._

Christ.

Blessedly he left Rosie's carrier in the car and just carried her upstairs in his arms so as he jumps out of his seat he doesn't have to fight with the straps of the carrier and he practically shoves her into Greg's arms.

Luckily Greg is not only a father himself but also a seasoned DI and, in the past, had a lot of things thrust into his arms, babies included but John isn't caring anymore. As soon as Rosie is somewhat secure, he bails out of the room worrying that he might not make it to the bathroom.

He does but just barely and as soon as he's crouching over the toilet, he vomits remains of his breakfast. Seconds later his legs give out and he finds himself falling to his knees. He barely has presence of mind to steady himself on the walls of the cubicle so he doesn't faceplant into the toilet. But it's a near thing.

He brought her into his life, their lives. Just accepted her patient persistence in drawing him out of depressed stupor. He married her, god damn it and they had a child together.

Oh, sweet lord, Rosie.

She wasn't planned, Mary or what the fuck is her actual name was just as surprised by the news of pregnancy as he was. Rosie probably threw in a wrench into her plans.

Rosie. Rosamund Mary. An eternal reminder of whose daughter she was. Why she didn't throw Siobhan into the mix? Probably didn't want to drive attention to it. Not if she was planning to use that identity again. Or maybe she was planning to wait till confirmation. Who the fuck knows?

And how did she made it out of the aquarium?

She died in his arms, bleed out and stopped breathing. She was dead.

She was also dead and her body was somewhere in Ireland.

Twins?

It's never twins, John.

Not twins, the universe wouldn't be that lazy. Sherlock's words again.

Christ, Sherlock. Mary killed his daughter, nearly killed him too.

At least Daisy killed her in return and did a better job of it than Vivian Norbury.

How she made it out of that bloody aquarium?

Behind his back he hears footsteps and without turning around he knows who it is.

Sherlock.

He hears Sherlock crouch behind him and he feels his hand, the right one, on his left shoulder.

"It wasn't your fault," he says as if he knows what John is thinking. "It was her choice, John. No-one made her do it. You said it yourself, no-one could ever make her do anything she didn't want to do," he adds throwing John's own words into his face. "She killed Daisy, not you."

John stops retching but keeps his head hanging before he shifts to the right and collapses against the wall of the cubicle. He feels the beads of sweat on his forehead but makes no move to wipe it.

There's no strength left in him, his breathing is slightly off kilter and his head is spinning.

Sherlock kneels down in front of him and places his right hand over John's left.

"It wasn't your fault, John," he says.

John takes a shaky breath that could pass for an attempt on a deep one and whispers, "You aren't seeing it, Sherlock. It's my fault, all of this is my fault."

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but John is faster.

"I brought her into our lives, it's on me," he says shakily.

"You didn't know who you were marrying, John," Sherlock points out softly. "Not your fault."

"My fault," John sighs and he raises his right hand weakly to stop Sherlock from interrupting because he needs to hear it, need-to-know clause be damned. He owes Sherlock at least this much. He needs to know why Mary killed his daughter and tried to kill him.

He draws in another deep breath.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," he says quietly. "Can't give you DOB or what he was involved with… much of it anyway," he shakes his head. "Bosnia, Kosovo for certain. Caught the beginning of Iraq too before the ground beneath his feet started burning. Decorated officer in…" he pauses as he tries to recall Moran's regiment but he can't, "doesn't matter. Splendid leader that inspired devotion in his troops, they were all loyal to him which is why he managed to get away with this shit as long as he had," he shakes his head. "Officially a model soldier, unofficially an all-around scumbag that used his army connections in smuggling weapons. Usually to the local gangs, sometimes opposite forces. Slipped by accident because someone managed to resist his charisma and reported him. After that the command started looking more closely at his goings and when his treachery became evident an arrest warrant had been issued. But someone alerted him and he managed to escape the arrest and being court marshalled. Discharged dishonourably in absentia but still remained a problem for the army."

"What happened?" asked Sherlock.

"February 2007, Kandahar province," answers John. "Black op, one of the four that was designed to capture Moran and his people. The first three were supposed to ensure his capture as well as that of his men… But after third failed attempt when most of the operatives were either killed or grievously injured or went missing the joint task force in command of the op decided that Moran and his men should be handled with as the Americans say: extreme prejudice."

"Summary execution," nods Sherlock.

"If it was summary execution there would be a mock trial," snorts John. "Instead it was one simple order: kill the bastard. Although it was more nicely worded but the sense remained the same," he sighs heavily. "Problem was," he grimaces, "a lion part of the operatives was temporarily attached to Fourth and Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and until Moran's location was confirmed they were supposed to serve as regular soldiers. Wouldn't have been much of a problem if the task force appointed more of the medical personnel but as it was, they only got three, two of which got shot and grievously injured respectively three days before the strike on Moran's camp. Day before it the third one got grisly stabbed with a scalpel by a delirious patient," he pauses, "in the tight which left them with no medical personnel whatsoever."

"So, they picked one from the base," says Sherlock slowly. "A crack-shot with a medical training."

"Yeah," sighs John heavily. "The op to this day remains as highly classified one. The army isn't very fond of admitting at loud that they sometimes have to handle badly misbehaving British citizens with brute force," he snorts. "What I'm going to say next is a serious breach in confidentiality but I don't bloody care anymore," he shakes his head.

"So, who shot Moran?" asks Sherlock softly.

"The only person that at the time had a clear shot, wasn't wounded or otherwise occupied," says John quietly and he points with his right thumb at himself. "Me," he adds quietly. "The bullet went through fifth costal cartilage shattering it then went through the liver and nicked inferior vena cava which together with fragments of cartilage that lodged themselves into internal organs caused massive internal bleeding and immediate death."

He pauses and takes a deep breath.

"I had it right in front of me all this time and I didn't see it," he admits brokenly. "I didn't even think about it, not even for a second," he shakes his head. "Until today," he sniffles, "I knew what Gregson was going to say before she said it. It wasn't a bloody surgery, not even for a moment," he shakes his head. "Not that I ever believed it. It was an execution…" he sniffles again "a revenge for her whatever he was to her, brother, husband I don't know and I don't really care. You and Daisy both. I don't know what her freaking endgame was but it was all a part of it and I didn't remember…" the tears are running freely from his eyes and he doesn't attempt to hold them back.

Sherlock springs and before John realises what's happening, he's wrapped in a crushing embrace, with his head pressed into Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock's chin is resting on the top of his head and his arms are wrapped tightly around John's shoulders.

It's on him. Daisy and Sherlock and Josie. He killed Moran and he brought Siobhan Moran into their lives, went back to her even because of Rosie… and Rosie. Fuck, what about Rosie? What was her endgame with Rosie in mind? Was she going to be a collateral damage in her mother's revenge against him? What about Sherlock? Was she planning to finish what she started once she dealt with Daisy? Was she planning to drag him down through the hell of losing his best friend again and then his daughter? Or was it going to be the other way, first Rosie and then Sherlock? Or did she love Rosie enough to keep her alive when she would put him down?

"It's my fault," he mutters into Sherlock's shirt. "It's all my fault."

"Shh," Sherlock whispers into his hair. "It's not your fault. Will never be your fault, John," his arms around John's shoulders tighten even more. "You were a solider in a war zone following orders. You couldn't predict the security breach in a classified operation, it wasn't your responsibility to worry about it. Someone screwed up but it wasn't you. You couldn't have known that she would seek revenge. It's not on you. Shh."

The tears are still running down his face, soaking through Sherlock's shirt but John can't bring himself to bother as he places his hands on Sherlock's sides because Sherlock is right in front of him, solid and breathing and so bloody forgiving of one of the most heinous crimes one can do to a parent. Because no matter what Sherlock says Daisy's death is on him, he's the reason why Josie will grow up without a mother, he's also the reason why Sherlock would never get a chance to personally met and get to know his daughter.

"She saved your life," says Sherlock softly. "Both our lives probably. Maybe even Rosie's too, I don't know. Daisy lost her life but made sure that Mary didn't finish what she started. She's dead, John, dead and not coming back to destroy us," he pauses. "I'm going to always regret not having a chance to meet her but I'm not going to begrudge her sacrifice. By lying down her life she saved two the most important people in the world to me and she had given me a third one. I'm going to always honour that."

"You shouldn't have to," John mumbles into his shirt. "You should have that awkward meeting and teaming up against Mycroft. You should have violin duets and university talks and visits with your granddaughter. She too, she should have a mother and a grandfather and your parents. They would drive you nuts but you would secretly love that. It's my fault."

"No, it isn't," Sherlock denies vehemently. "And if I will have to spend the rest of my life convincing you that Mary's choices aren't your fault then I will. In lying down her life Daisy conferred a value on the lives she left behind…" he pauses.

… and it's a currency I do not know how to spend, John's mind finishes the echo of their conversation from day before yesterday. The switch from Mary to Daisy doesn't erase the weight of the life that was lied down to preserve his, or John's or Rosie's.

He, his daughter and Sherlock probably all owe their lives to Daisy. It might have been a willing, conscious sacrifice or not. They will most probably never know for certain but it doesn't change the facts. Daisy killed Mary so Mary didn't have a chance to kill Sherlock, Rosie and John. In lying down her life Daisy saved his whole world.

You were my whole world, Mary's ghost whispers into his ear.

Go away, you have no right to be there, never had it in the first place.

But I did and you let me, she chirps. Idiot who saw but didn't observe. You fancied yourself to be so smart, granted not a genius but with your medical training and military experience… It was all there and you just didn't see it. You should have turned me over to Mycroft the very moment you learned that I wasn't who I pretended to be and what I did to him.

I should have, he agrees.

But you didn't. If only you were a few minutes slower I would partially succeed and I didn't even need to be there to do so. My words were all that it took to send him down the downward spiral, you did the rest. He's still alive due to sheer dumb luck. But I would have fixed that…

But you never got the chance and now you will never have. You have no power over me or Rosie anymore. And I'm changing her name as soon as I get the chance.

Into what? Sherlock? It's not a girl's name.

Fuck you. This ends now, get the fuck away and never come back.

Are you sure about that?

He growls into Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock's arms around him tighten even more.

It will end, sooner or later but it will end and she would be nothing but another nightmare he got through. Liar, assassin, plain murderer…

Verbally abusive, gaslighting wife, Elsa's voice whispers into his ear. Good fucking riddance, both times. At least now she's properly dead.

She is and unlike the last time he feels absolutely no guilt about the relief that surges through his body. Mary is dead. Rosie is safe, as is Sherlock. But this time he won't be burying her, the Irish might claim her body for all that he cares about it. Mary Watson was nothing but a façade and he doesn't know how one day he will explain all of it to his daughter…

Surrogate? The voice in his ear changes into Harry's. Tell her that Mary was barren and she was wearing a fake belly while the surrogate was carrying your daughter?

It's not exactly an ideal solution but sure as hell sounds better than 'your mother most probably conceived you to execute a revenge on me for killing her murderous, criminal relative and oh, you know Josie, she killed her mother to as a part of it'.

Will his daughter know Josie?

"Josie," whispers John.

"What about her?" asks Sherlock softly.

"What about her?" echoes John. "I know that you didn't exactly have…"

"I'm going to keep her," Sherlock cuts him of gently. "It's what Daisy would have wanted…"

"She didn't oblige you…" John interjects.

"I know," sighs Sherlock. "But do you really expect me to just hand her over to anyone knowing how far her mother went in protecting her and the most important people in my life? I owe it to her, John but I'm not going to do this because I owe her. I'm going to do this because she was my daughter and because Josephine is my granddaughter," he adds fiercely. "Though I have to admit that the fact that my granddaughter is the same age as your daughter even though I'm nearly six years younger than you is slightly messing with my head. I don't look like a grandpa, you do."

"Arse," John chuckles softly into his shirt.

"Facts are facts," says Sherlock simply. "Probably would be better to go with dad until she's old enough to understand this clusterfuck. Jesus, I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Welcome to fatherhood," says John as he tries to pull away but doesn't manage to draw himself too far away from Sherlock, "the state of being constantly bewildered by what your children are capable of and winging things out as you go. At least you have some experience in taking care of an infant. You will do fine."

"Can't do it alone," sighs Sherlock.

"You won't be," John assures him. "Your parents would be delighted and Mycroft owes you a lifetime of favours for keeping Daisy from you. Mrs H would be over the moon, Molly probably too, once she gets over the shock. I'm not sure about Greg though…"

"They don't matter," Sherlock interrupts him. "Well, they do," he corrects himself, "but not as much as you."

_Because Mrs Hudson is right. I'm burning up. I'm at the bottom of the pit and I'm still falling and I'm never climbing out. I'm a mess, I'm in hell. Look at me. Can't do it, not now. Not alone._

Sherlock's words from Elsa's office spring to his minds, the relevant and not Smith related ones.

I did this to him, John thinks. I took this brilliant, wonderful, brave man and I shattered him into tiny pieces with my words and my own fists after everything he had done to and for me and he still…

That thought brings him to tears again and he rests his forehead against Sherlock's because the reverse it's also true for him. No one matters more than Sherlock, no one, not even Mary got that close, except for Ro... he really should do something about that name. His daughter shouldn't be caring a murderer's name for longer than necessary. Legal process will take some time and but he really should come up with something. Katherine maybe? Mary vetoed it, and several others.

Katherine should do for now until he has more time to think about it. Katie or Kate or Kathy. He will figure it out.

"Of course, I'll be there," he whispers. "I'll always be there for you, Sherlock," he vows solemnly. "For you and Josie for as long as you will have me."

"I will always have you," Sherlock says earnestly. "I'll never want you to not be there."

His admission warms John's heart, he knows that he doesn't deserve it but he will take everything Sherlock has to offer and he will stay there for as long as Sherlock would want him there. No matter where that there will be.

Speaking of there, he should definitely get the fuck out of the flat as soon as humanly possible because the idea of spending another night in the house he shared with that bitch is simply revolting. Quite large part of him wants to set it on fire which would have been fine if the building belonged to him but it doesn't. It will go on sale then, fast and will be sold to the first person who would like to buy it, even at a huge discount. He doesn't care. But he's definitely not going to set a foot in that flat for longer than it would take to collect his stuff and necessary items for Ro… Katie. As far as he cares they might spend this night under a bridge as long as it won't be in that flat.

The car should go to sale too… Maybe not today because he might actually need a station wagon if he plans to move but as soon as it won't be needed, he'll get something small and nice. A Fiat or a small Toyota or a Golf or a small Vauxhall.

"John?" Sherlock prompts him gently.

"Sorry, got lost in thoughts," he sighs as he pulls away.

"Anything I would have to talk you out of?" asks Sherlock with a frown.

"Not really," he admits. "I might ask for an opinion but it can wait," he adds. "We shouldn't be sitting here."

"No, we shouldn't," agrees Sherlock as he hoists himself into standing position and then helps John pick himself from the ground.

Sherlock waits for him while John cleans himself up over the sink. He looks like hell and feels like one too but he manages to get himself in order enough to not look like someone who just had a mental break down.

They leave the bathroom together and go through the open space of the office back into Gregson's office. They're closer than they ever had been, arms brushing on occasion.

In Gregson's office she's typing something on the keyboard while Greg attempts to entertain two girls in his arms. Josie and Ro… Katie appear to be having fun by poking Greg in the face. Greg doesn't look amused but he endures the poking with the patience of someone who deals with Sherlock Holmes on regular basis.

Some tiny, mischievous part of him thinks that he should leave Greg like that for a little while longer but Sherlock almost immediately rectifies that by going to Greg and taking both girls into his arms. He holds them to himself tightly before he nods at Greg and heads to John.

John expects him to hand him his daughter but instead ends up with an armful of Josie while Sherlock hugs Ro... Katie to himself tightly before he walks over to the chair and sits down in it.

Idiot, he chides himself as he secures his hold on Josie who happily pokes him in the nose. He missed her, went without seeing her for nearly two months even. It's obvious that he would like to hold her for a little while longer. He had Josie with… strictly speaking on him for a better part of the morning and R… Katie only for few moments.

So, John smiles softly at Josie and pecks her on the forehead which makes her giggle and returns to his seat.

"Is there more?" asks Sherlock.

"There's always more," grumbles Gregson. "But Garda isn't exactly forthcoming about more details and he," she nods with her head towards Greg, "is insisting that I shouldn't invoke your names unless we will get through your brother," she adds.

"Going to voicemail, aren't you?" asks Sherlock. "We tried that since we first saw Daisy."

"We don't exactly need the paps getting the wind of it and Mycroft might help with bringing their bodies back to England," says Greg tiredly.

"Daisy's," says John insistently. "Hers is the only body we care about getting back to England. The Irish can keep Moran for all that I care about her. Mary Watson was dead for far longer than she pretended to be, she's properly buried as such even if the ashes in the urn are fake…" he stops suddenly.

How Mary managed to fake her death?

She didn't have a pulse. He was fairly sure of that. But Greg steered him away from her body as soon as paramedics appeared on the scene. Only to pronounce her dead but still.

"Did you know?" he finds himself asking.

"I wouldn't do it to you, John," says Greg, he sounds more surprised than offended.

"But we all know who would," mutters Sherlock. "And that b-a-s-t-a-r-d isn't picking up his phone," he adds furiously.

"To what end?" asks John as he turns to him, nearly avoiding being poked in the eye by Josie.

"Too many variables," grimaces Sherlock. "Good question to ask once he starts picking his infernal phone," he grumbles and remains silent for a moment. "Fake bullets or Kevlar and some breathing techniques? Or a toxin that would have slowed her heart rate enough to pass as barely noticeable?" he wonders at loud. "And Norbury herself, willing or unwilling accomplice? Who's on the matter?"

"What the Garda knows about Moran?" asks John as he turns back to Greg and Gregson.

"What they don't know about her," snorts Gregson. "The oldest stuff is extortion mostly, car thieves too, the whole process even. Got a short stint in prison for that too. Then supposedly she became a model citizen for about a year or two. Then there are bank robberies, exists mostly as a witness but most probably an inside man or woman to be precise. Got caught a time or two in cars that were matching the looks of the getaway vehicles in which bank robbers got away."

"Further down the line she became a witness of several unsolved murders which I'm speculating are hers because we have remains of the bullet that got pulled from your chest," adds Greg and he nods at Sherlock. "There's a chance that they might not be but I wouldn't be holding my breath on that," he grimaces.

"And then there's the exact match," mutters Gregson. "Same type of the bullet was shot from the very same gun in a murder of a police officer in Belfast. 15th March 2014. The name is Adam Hughes."

15th March 2014, the weekend of Mary's getaway in Spa somewhere out in the middle of nowhere with her old friends from university. Another lie and then she had the audacity to use the same gun on Sherlock.

"And you're just finding it out now?" asks Sherlock sourly.

"Unfortunately, the ballistic report from Hughes murder wasn't available when we ran it against yours," snorts Greg. "Wonder why?"

"The answer didn't change," snorts Sherlock. "Wonder why?"

"Hacked?" offers John. "She did hack MI6 database on the plane," he adds. "Didn't Irene Adler told us that the records kept are as reliable as their keepers?"

"If it's any consolation ballistic report from Hughes's murder got filled on their servers twenty days ago. Supposedly it was lost to some mysterious server malfunction or a virus that only just recently been located and dealt with," says Gregson. "But why Hughes?"

"Most probably because he knew whose daughter Daisy was," answers John. "I can't imagine Mycroft not imploring some serious threats against him if he had failed to locate her and considering his demotion they had to be followed through," he grimaces.

"Magnussen would have known something about it," mutters Sherlock. "He didn't."

"Mycroft is good at keeping secrets," points out John. "He would have to be really careful if he manged to locate Daisy before…"

Before Sherlock killed Magnussen.

"If he managed to locate her before Josie was born," adds Sherlock pensively. "Did he or did he not?" he mutters. "Another question for Mycroft."

"Feels like old days," mutters Gregson. "Three idiots sitting in the dark, twirling thumbs until his majesty arrives and plays secrets act card."

"Do you had many cases like that?" asks John, feeling slightly curious.

"Enough for me to consider him," she waves at Sherlock, "as a nuisance that only occasionally got on my nerves enough for me to reach the point when I wanted to punch him in the face," she snorts. "Mycroft Holmes on the other hand I wanted to punch in the face every time I saw him even if he didn't do anything that warranted it because usually it turned out that if he didn't do it, then he only didn't do it yet."

"Hence the reason why I'm using Greg as a carrier-pigeon whenever I need something from her," quips Sherlock.

"I don't know if I should be touched or offended," snorts Greg.

"I would go with touched," offers John. "He did remember your name,"

"He always remembers my name," sighs Greg exasperatedly. "He used it enough times since we started working together to remember it. That how-many-G-names-that-aren't-Greg-can-I-come-up-with game started when Mycroft started pressing me into giving him somewhat regular reports about Sherlock's state. Predictably he," he jabs a finger at Sherlock, "found out after the first one I gave him because if there's one aspect in which Mycroft can't keep a secret it's him," he nods at Sherlock. "Called me Gaylord for an entire week after that."

"And let's not forget Gretchen which you had been for nearly six weeks," chirps Gregson. "Wonder what you did to warrant that?"

"Absolutely nothing whatsoever," mutters Greg.

"Told Mycroft that he caught me inhaling paint," says Sherlock simply. "I was painting the bloody kitchen in the middle of a blizzard. It was either inhale paint fumes or get a pneumonia."

"Why you were painting kitchen in the middle of a blizzard?" asks John.

"Blew up a microwave," says Greg quickly. "Pretty badly on that because it went through the kitchen wall into the bedroom. It was this tiny place on Montague Street, wasn't it?" he asks.

"The one before that," mutters Sherlock. "One of the bedsits. It was during one of Mycroft's you're not having access to your trust fund phases. They came and went I can't be bothered to remember when they occurred."

"Did he also cut you off before you moved to Baker Street?" asks Greg dryly.

"Like I said…" starts Sherlock.

"He's fibbing," quips Gregson. "You didn't really need a flatmate, did you?"

"Sincerely bugger off, Thomasina," mutters Sherlock.

"Aww," Gregson coos sweetly. "You just met an army doctor that caught your interest and declared bankruptcy."

Sherlock mutters something that John can't understand. It's not French or Pashto but sounds slightly German except it's not. Gregson quips something back which makes Sherlock resort to visual threats of decapitation and strangulation one after the other before he starts talking again, firing words one after the other.

"Yiddish," says Greg simply. "Don't mind them, they used to get into heated debates in Yiddish."

"You don't know it?" asks John curiously while Sherlock and Gregson argue furiously.

"I tried to learn it and I caught enough of it to get that stuff they were talking about was never relevant to a case so I stopped bothering," shrugs Greg. "If there was something I needed to know at least one of them bothered to cough up something in English," he shrugs again. "What I can actually tell you is that by now they both resorted to calling each other names…" he pauses and whistles loudly.

Sherlock huffs in indignation and mutters another sentence or two and Gregson just smirks before she replies quickly and leans back against her chair.

"That sort of happens if you leave them in the same room for far too long," snorts Greg. "For some reason they're excellent at stimulating each other's thought process but at the same time their individual IQs take a nose dive into double digits the longer the conversation goes and the more personal it becomes."

"And that's our cue to leave," huffs Sherlock. "Keep us posted," he adds as he stands up and picks up his coat.

"Greg will call you if we will find more," quips Gregson. "Bye, Menace, Doctor Watson."

John says his goodbyes and follows Sherlock out of Gregson's office. While they're waiting for the lift Sherlock puts his coat on but he's unwilling to let go of R… Katie.

Katie. Katie. Katie. John repeats mentally. Or Kate as long as he's not starting thinking about R.

"We need to get a car-seat," he says once the doors of the lift closes behind them. "We got lucky in so far but if a patrol car catches us, they will fine our butts."

Sherlock grunts in agreement and mutters, "It won't bankrupt us."

"You didn't really need a flatmate, did you?" asks John curiously.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs, "I was in a tight spot but I could survive on canned food and cheap pasta for a month or two."

"Sherlock," he presses.

"I needed a favour from Stamford and you know him. He's a talker, I had to endure chit-chat to get what I wanted which otherwise would take too much time. The flat thing just came up and I did what people usually do while talking about rent. I complained, he suggested a flat-share, I asked him who would want me for a flatmate. Then lunch hour comes and goes and he turns up with you in the lab."

"And you just declared bankruptcy?" John parrots Gregson's words.

"Oh, for God's sake," sighs Sherlock. "You know me. I'm not a people person. Most people are simple and easy to figure out. They bore me."

"And I didn't?" asks John curiously.

"You were a study in contradictions, still are," shrugs Sherlock. "You never crossed paths with someone you couldn't really figure out but wanted to?" he asks.

"I did," admits John and it's as easy as breathing. "Nearly six years ago my paths crossed with a certain pillock who day after I met him took my crippled butt on a run through London and nearly got himself killed by a serial killer before the night ended," he adds and pauses before he continues. "For the life of me I can't remember his name but he has been both the biggest pain in the arse I ever met and the best man I ever knew."

"And did you?" asks Sherlock cautiously. "Figure him out, I mean?"

"God no," sighs John. "But it's a constant work in progress."

"Aren't we all," sighs Sherlock and looks at John's daughter in his arms.

"What about her other comments?" asks John.

Sherlock frowns and bites his lower lip.

Not good then.

"She was making lewd comments," says Sherlock finally when the lift reaches underground level. "They piss you off and I wanted to avoid the shouting," he shrugs as the door slide open and he walks out.

"You never did that before," says John when he catches up with him.

"Never had to," answers Sherlock quickly. "Plus, I actually am…" he lowers his voice "gay and I got out self-denial some twenty-five years ago. Not to mention you were doing pretty good job for both of us. Why should I keep repeating something which already had been said?" he adds before he lengthens his strides leaving John behind.

Hit a nerve, Elsa mutters into his ear. Isn't that curious?

Kindly bugger off, he chides her.

Actually, no, she quips. Where's the line, John?

Fuck you. It's not a good time or place.

Then a five years old memory surges to the forefront of his mind.

_You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?!_

_At him. He never replies._

_No, Sherlock always replies – to everything. He's Mr Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word._

Always except this, Elsa whispers. Why?

John shakes his head.

Look at you both. Pushing and pulling, saving and killing each other. Bickering like an old married couple but never about important things. Never about this. Why?

He said no. Said that he was married to his work.

Day after you'd met him. You do know him. It takes him a lot of time to warm…

He still said no.

Nearly six years ago. Ask him now.

No.

Why not?

Because the answer might still be the same and if it is, I would rather spend the rest of my life not knowing.

And if it isn't?

After everything I've done to him? He has a sense of self-preservation of a toddler in a knife shop. I've hurt him enough. I've beaten him on more than one occasion. I've kept putting him down and not always in jest. I'm no better than Mary but I refuse to be Mary. I can't do it to him.

Then don't.

It's not that simple.

Life isn't simple, it would be boring if it was.

And he knows. He heard us at Battersea. Never addressed it. It's enough of an answer for me.

Would you thrust your heart into hands of someone who isn't sure?

I've already had.

Not to his face.

Doesn't matter, the answer won't change.

He killed a man to keep you from doing it. He kept killing himself over and over for you.

That's why I can't do this to him. He suffered enough and I killed his daughter.

Your psychopathic, abusive wife killed his daughter and for the record she killed her right back.

Doesn't make her any less dead or more alive. No, not today, not tomorrow or day after. Not next week, not even a month and maybe not in a year.

One day.

Josie pokes him in his right eye and he yelps. Blessedly, he doesn't curse. He shifts her to his left side and rubs his right eye before he tries his gentlest stern glare which he uses on his daughter when she tries doing something she shouldn't be doing. R… Katie at least attempts to look hesitant for a split second but Josie doesn't even try. She reaches out again and tries to poke him into his left eye but he ducks away before he grabs her hands and pulls them to his chest. The movement tips her forward and he presses a kiss to her forehead which make her giggle.

She's definitely a Holmes. For Sherlock's, and John's, peace of mind they should run DNA tests to confirm it but she doesn't take lightly to being ignored, much like Sherlock on occasions and she does look like him. As much as a nearly one-year old baby can look like one of her relatives anyway.

For a moment his thoughts fly to Daisy. To her face, her eyes, her messy hair. Nervous but determined. Lying dead on a slab.

But then he hears Sherlock's voice calling out, "Can you open the car? I need to get to the diaper-bag."

R… Katie wet herself. At probably the right time too or maybe now is the time they realised it or she wet herself when they were upstairs… Damn it, they should have brought the diaper-bag upstairs. Also, if Katie is wet and Sherlock changed Josie around the similar time Josie might be wet too.

Fuck, underground garage is not a good place to change a nappy.


	5. Chapter 5

_A good listener is not only popular everywhere, but after a while he gets to know something._

_~Wilson Mizner_

**Sherlock**

After a very brief and quite logical – once he reconsidered it – discussion about 'we're not this kind of parents who change their children in a cold, underground parking lot, Sherlock' they changed both girls in the bathroom for disabled on the ground floor of NSY. Strictly speaking Sherlock was doing the changing part while John kept handing him necessary items.

At least neither of the girls shat themselves in a manner that would warrant hosing down in the sink. That was definitely a plus. The minus was that instead of two nappies he had to change four because nearly as soon as he handed to John one freshly changed Rosie to finish up dressing her and started working on changing Josie Rosie decided that it was a great time to poo. Same thing happened when he handed changed Josie to John, took Rosie from him to change her.

"Does waiting for them to poo while they're already wet falls under parental abuse?" he asked John when he disposed fourth dirty nappy in the bin.

"Probably," answered John. "Don't worry, you're doing fine. And count your blessings. When that one," he pressed a kiss to Rosie's downy head, "was a new-born she could decimate three nappies within an hour."

Now they are sitting in a restaurant. It's a small, hole-in-the-wall type of place but as Sherlock had learned many years ago, it's practically the only place in Westminster that all of the things which John demanded when Josie and Rosie started fussing: soup on the menu and a parking spot nearby.

"Perhaps it's a bad idea," says John once the waitress took their orders for drinks and disappeared.

He means Josie, the thought flies through Sherlock's head immediately.

"I might not be the best role model on the planet but I assure you…" he starts the retort but John cuts him off quickly.

"You thought that Josie?" asks John, he looks quite shocked and shakes his head. "I meant the car," he adds with a grimace.

"What about the car?" asks Sherlock feeling slightly surprised.

"Nothing really," answers John with a shrug. "I thought about downsizing that monster into something smaller and easier to park but I've been quite forcefully reminded that we live in one of the most congested cities in the world and that finding parking space here is like participating in hunger games."

Sherlock feels himself frowning as he asks, "What hunger has to do with parking?"

John's mouth twitch and he says, "Pop-culture. Some ridiculous dystopian movies that Mary made me watch when we first got together."

"So that isn't a recommendation," nods Sherlock.

"Not really. If I had to choose a dystopian movie to watch I would choose the Maze Runner. Quite enjoyable but would bore you to tears," says John simply. "No, what awaits you, and consequently me is Disney Princesses. But not for a while so you can, you know, let it go," he adds and smiles to himself as if he just told a joke. "What do you want?"

"I'm not really hungry," answers Sherlock with a shrug.

"Not really healthy too," responds John. "I'm not going to press you into eating but could you at least try to share a soup with Josie?"

Sherlock sighs and eyes the menu. There's a split pea soup which he likes. There's also tomato one and celery soup. He likes the former and is indifferent to the latter two, unless the tomato one is one of Mrs Hudson's and celery one is one which John makes.

He skims the menu until he finds tenderised chicken breast fillet. Josie and Rosie both have their incisors so they should be fine with soft meat. Potatoes would be great to go with it but he and John prefer chips to mashed but mashed would be better for the girls. What to add to it? Creamed spinach maybe.

"Split pea. Chicken breast with mashed potatoes and whatever you suggest for the sides," he says finally.

"Will you survive boiled baby carrots?" asks John. "Or creamed spinach?"

The waitress arrives with their teas and apple juice for the girls and takes their orders. Luckily for them before they left John stuffed two empty bottles into diaper-bag so once he pours juice into them both girls settle quite happily with their drinks.

While they wait for the soup, they sit in silence that doesn't feel oppressive but doesn't feel comfortable either. John doesn't talk and Sherlock isn't sure what he should say. Is John still thinking that Mary killing Daisy was his fault? Probably not, if he was, he wouldn't be at his phone. He's not using it to call anyone but keeps staring at the screen between scrolling and eyeing Rosie. What he's looking for?

He gets his answer shortly after once the waitress arrives with their soups and John puts the phone down. The screen doesn't go dark immediately and Sherlock has a chance to spot '1 Bedroom Flat for Rent' before it does.

Why he's looking at properties to rent if he already has a place on his own?

Sherlock waits only long enough for the waitress to leave before he pounces.

"Why you're looking for a flat to rent?" he asks briskly.

He catches John mid-blowing the spoon of soup and he freezes like that for a moment before his eyes fly to his phone on the table and then back to Sherlock. Then he finishes blowing and tries the soup. He puts the spoon back in the bowl and swirls it for a moment before he sighs.

"Because after what I learned today, I'm not going to that flat for longer than it would be necessary to pack our stuff," he says.

"Why?" asks Sherlock.

"Murderous, supposedly dead wife that's actually dead for real two months after she was buried?" says John with a grimace.

"It's just a flat," shrugs Sherlock.

"No," John shakes his head. "It's a space which I shared with my murderous, lying and criminal wife. A space to which she happily came back after she murdered a man and then nearly killed another," he pauses and shakes his head again. "The point is, I'm not going back there if I can help it, even if we will have to sleep under a bridge."

"Why you would have to sleep under a bridge or look at another flat to rent if you already have a place with cheap rent and landlady that's not your housekeeper but if you will let her she'll mother you and Rosie with all her might?" asks Sherlock.

"You aren't seeing it, are you?" asks John sceptically.

"I'm seeing very well, thank you," he replies.

"Sherlock," says John and he sighs heavily. "221B is a two-bedroom flat. You're keeping Josie so that means that you already have two people living in a two-bedroom flat."

Oh, so that's the problem. The most pressing one on John's mind and not 'I'm not sure about bringing up my daughter in the same flat with a guy who just got out of the hospital after an extended drug binge'. Well, it isn't on John's mind for now.

"And what you're forgetting is that said two-bedroom flat is located in a three-storey building," he retorts. "You're also forgetting that your bedroom," he doesn't say old, he never had, "is the size of the living room downstairs…"

"Even if we will stick the girls in one bedroom, we're still one bedroom short," John interjects.

"Not if we put a wall in the middle of your bedroom," says Sherlock. "Sure, they will be rather narrow and we would have to do something about the wall of the washing room to get a door into the corridor but we got through worse," he pauses. "I think that the best would be leaving them downstairs due to the proximity of the bathroom to minimise the distance that would have to be covered if one of them got an another 'how the hell did that got up there' incident."

"That's now," nods John. "What about ten years from now? Or even less if they wouldn't want to share the room?" he asks.

"Three storey building," replies Sherlock simply. "One which history I happen to know on that," he adds dryly. "When she first bought Hudders lived in the attic. Well, technically it was servants' quarters but she remodelled it into a studio. It has a tiny bathroom which would certainly need upgrading but we can do that by getting rid of the kitchen because we won't need another one. So, by the time Josie and Rosie will need separate rooms we would move them to the second floor and put you in the attic," he pauses and smirks, "or put me in the attic if by that point you will start complaining about your bad hip."

"Arse," snorts John and he smiles, it's a quick, crooked thing but it's still a smile so it counts. "What about your experiments? And clients? What you're going to do about these?"

Sherlock frowns for a moment. It's a good question. 221B isn't exactly babyproof place unless one keeps at least one eye on the baby at all times and seeing as there will be two of them... Not to mention clients come at all times of the day and the girls would need to sleep, also have something more than one room between them and complete strangers.

He smiles to himself when the solution presents itself.

"I could move that to C, not without renovating it though, but I can turn the kitchen into a lab space so you wouldn't have to complain about body-parts in the fridge," he replies. "The room can be turned into office space for meeting with the clients."

"And what? You will be dragging your chair back and forth between first floor and the basement?" asks John teasingly. "You kept whining through the entire week that time when we switched chairs because you lost a bet. It's too high, the seat is too short…"

"Like I said, 221 Baker Street used to have four individual flats," answers Sherlock simply. "Where do you think that mismatched furniture came from?" he smirks. "Both our chairs have a double in the attic, I also think that I spotted the very same rug which is in the living room. There was also some left-over wallpaper that's over the sofa. So, with some effort C could be transformed into an office space that would be only minimally different from the living-room and I can get around the minimal difference. Plus, it will be a while before I will start taking anything that cannot be solved online or a nine so…" he shrugs.

"You are sure about it?" asks John, he sounds uncertain. "You really want us to move in with you?"

That's an incoming no, he realises but he's not going to give up just like that. He needs John in his life and with John comes Rosie and if making space for them in his life is what John needs…

"Would I offer it if I didn't?" he asks simply. "You want to leave your flat. Which is fine. The floor plan there sucks anyway. You have one bathroom there and it's an en suite, the kitchen is tiny and open to the living area which is fine as long as you aren't entertaining guests which… Who needs to see dirty dishes?"

"You don't," John interjects but he's grinning.

"Not to mention it's too far away from the hospital and there aren't any good day-cares in the area, don't even start me on schools… You need a car to do any proper shopping or riding at least two different buses. No proper parks in the area too, unless you count that sneeze and you will miss it square half a mile away. Getting takeaway there takes ages and you always have to pay for the distance if you're ordering from a good place or remain on the mercy of subpar restaurants," Sherlock is on a roll now.

"Glad to hear finally hear what you really think about my place," says John but he doesn't sound angry so Sherlock takes it as a small win.

"It's hateful," Sherlock admits. "It's too suburban to have city amenities close by and too close to the city to be suburban. At least in the suburbia you would have a proper house you wouldn't have to share with another family and your own backyard that wouldn't disappear once you would put a swing in there. So, in overall it's a meh."

"It is," John agrees. "But it was an affordable meh when I bought it and if you saw the one in which I lived after I moved away from Baker Street after…" he pauses. "You would be having opinions," he smirks. "In fact, you did have opinions."

Sherlock looks at him in shock and he feels like kicking himself. He should have suspected it after he realised that John was talking to hallucination of Mary. If Mary's sudden, untrue now but true when it happened, tragic death caused him to hallucinate her wouldn't the same sudden, tragic and also untrue death of his friend cause the same issue.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I know," sighs John and stirs his soup before he tries it and offers next spoon to Rosie who takes it and mashes her lips happily.

It's also a cue for Sherlock to do the same for Josie, so he does, offering her a spoon and watching if she likes it. She does.

"It wasn't as bad as being at Baker Street though," admits John quietly at it makes Sherlock look at him. "I tried, for few weeks but…" he pauses. "Worse than seeing you and knowing that you were dead was…" he pauses again. "Everything," he sighs. "Making tea for two even though I was the only one to drink it, same with food. But it wasn't as hateful as this overwhelming silence. Getting a call from Mr Chang nearly a month after you died that someone needed to pick up your dry-cleaning, you probably remember him, poor man was nearly blind as a bat and half-deaf too…" he tries to smile but it's more than a grimace. "But even that wasn't the worst," he sighs and his eyes get glassy, "it was the fall itself, over and over and over and over," he grimaces, "in dreams or awake, sometimes I was getting there already too late, sometimes I never left but nothing I tried to do or say…. At times I was going right over the edge with you…"

Unlike John who is trying to hold back the tears Sherlock has no problem with not holding his. He knew the very moment when John recognised him at the restaurant that he made a horrendous mistake by turning it into a joke. He saw how distraught and barely holding himself together John was at his grave. He knew that John's grief was genuine, had to be genuine because John's very life depended on it. Turning that grief into a joke? He deserved every single punch John threw his way that night. He should have that meeting in private get Mycroft to give John some warning, he should have stressed out how necessary to John's survival and safety was keeping him unaware. He should let him rant and rave instead of trying to dazzle him with cleverness.

Slowly he reaches out, placing his fingers over John's left hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry that you had to see it. I'm sorry that I had to keep you in the dark," he pauses. "Until the very last moment I thought that I could find some way around it but Moriarty left me no choice, John. You had to believe in my death. Not because you didn't matter but because you were one of the few people that mattered the most. Moriarty didn't put his snipers on my parents, not even on Mycroft and even if he had Mycroft had whole secret service at his disposal," he shakes his head. "If his men didn't see me jump… I didn't have a choice. I wish I had. It wasn't even supposed to last as long as it had."

John looks at him, then at their joined hands and asks softly, "How long it was going to last?"

"Three months," sighs Sherlock. "Initially and that was to what I've agreed. Three months of confirming the information which Mycroft got out of Moriarty about his web and helping Interpol and local police forces in rooting them out. But the deeper I kept digging the farther the web stretched out and I wasn't certain if there wasn't any back up plan that involved your immediate demise should I dare to show my face back in London again. Three months turned into six and before I turned around a whole year gone by and I was nowhere near to being done. I grew impatient, sloppy even," he pauses to sigh again. "Got myself caught several times and had been nearly caught more times than I liked. But I had to finish rooting out Moriarty's most trusted."

"Did you?" asks John gently.

"After the first year I promised myself that I wouldn't let it become two," says Sherlock. "The last stretch was supposed to be Serbia but the man I was looking for was a ghost, people heard of him but no-one saw him. I had what I thought were rock solid papers but I didn't factor in the fact that I would get burned. I narrowly escaped and had to lie low in Germany before Mycroft managed to root out the spy in the embassy. Second year went by there. I returned to Serbia in the summer and started over and unlike earlier my progress was smooth. At the time in my cockiness I didn't realise how smooth. I got caught, again, I managed to escape, didn't factor in that they simply let me escape. I should have asked for an extraction but I was this close to being done," he pauses. "And then I got caught, once more and this time the umbrella wielding twerp had to get down there to get me out. Because he didn't want to endanger the operation, I had to wait…"

"How long?" asks John.

"Too long to grow sick of Serbian hospitality," shrugs Sherlock. "Lovely people as long as they aren't criminals."

"Sherlock," presses John.

"Long enough to be happy about being rescued, even by Mycroft," he adds with a grimace, he doesn't want to talk about torture sessions.

"Your back," says John quietly.

Shit. How did he? Right, doctor. The doctor's at St Mary's hospital were urged by Mycroft to not disclose that detail but the ones at Caedwalla's probably hadn't gotten the same warning.

"That was from Serbia?" asks John.

Sherlock doesn't answer, John isn't an idiot, he's more than capable of making that deduction if he gives him anything.

"Christ," whispers John as he leans back, pulling his hand away in the process and Sherlock immediately feels the loss. "You were flayed," he utters, he's starting to breath erratically, "they could have been several... days old at the most and I…" he looks positively sick now.

"I let you believe that I was dead for over two years," Sherlock interrupts him. "And unlike handling the reveal like any sensible human being would have done in my place I turned two years of your grief into a joke," he says heatedly.

"That's not an excuse," says John as he shakes his head. "Christ, Sherlock, you have to hold me accountable for this kind of shit."

"Why?" Sherlock counters.

"Because…" he starts and swallows visibly, "if they didn't pull me away," he pauses and swallows again, "I would keep going and you would have let me. You did let me," he swallows again. "You were dying and I nearly bloody killed you."

"You know that nearly is the operative word in this sentence, don't you," says Sherlock quietly.

"Jesus," whispers John and he hangs his head. "We can't keep going like this, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart drops to his stomach. This is it, the no that he was waiting for, the retraction of the earlier promise to be there for him, for them, the 'we should part our ways' that had been hanging over his head ever since John refused to see him after Mary's death. Granted, the circumstances had changed but…

I'm sorry. I love you; I love you so much. I would have given up anything for you. Not just my life. The Work. The drugs. Moriarty's puzzles. If I had the power to turn back time, I wouldn't engage in any case that led me closer to Moriarty. Because by engaging into that game I lost the only person that mattered the most.

He can feel the tears starting to slip away again and he lowers his head to hide his face in Josie's downy hair. It will break him; he knows that it will break him but he cannot let it break him because he's not alone anymore.

"Sherlock," says John softly. "We can't keep going like this," he repeats. "Not on our own," he adds.

That makes Sherlock look at him in shock because the last sentence implies… But he cannot bring himself to hope. No, hope is the cruellest of evils because it only prolongs the torment.

"Sherlock?" asks John quietly. "Are you…"

"Must be pollens," he sniffs and quickly wipes the tears away.

John opens his mouth but after a moment he closes it again only to open it again.

"That's what I'm talking about," says John. "And I know that you hate even the idea of it and everything it entails but for the sake of whatever good has been left of our friendship we have to do this. We have to get into therapy, as individuals as much as a unit. We both need it and they," he gestures at Rosie and Josie, "need us to be at our best. Because we aren't now and I don't think we had been for a very long time."

"You want to start therapy?" asks Sherlock slowly. "With me?"

"Yes," sighs John. "I know that our situation is peculiar but so is our relationship as much as our situation, especially if we're going to live together again."

"Yes," says Sherlock quickly.

"Just like that?" asks John cautiously. "With no arguments?"

"Do you want me to rectify it?" asks Sherlock. "Or put a bigger fight?"

"God, no," sighs John.

"Do you have any recommendations?" asks Sherlock.

"I would agree to your suggestions," answers John and he takes a deep breath.

But he has one of his own, Sherlock realises.

"But?" Sherlock prompts him.

"Elsa had been…" John starts and pauses, "scarily perceptive and brutally honest in so far," he adds. "It's exhausting but effective. I've been seeing her every day since…" he pauses, "since last Friday," he finishes.

"Is it helping?" asks Sherlock gently.

"No," sighs John. "Not at this stage of let's see what kind of shit you have up there John Watson," he grimaces. "On most of the days I just want to run out of the room and never come back. But I need it, I need to face myself. I don't want to become my father, I don't want to become my mother either," he pauses and tries to give Rosie another spoon of soup.

Rosie is not having it and fights with John's attempts to fed her until something falls on Sherlock's jeans and he looks down to find Josie trying to eat the soup by herself. Most of the soup is on her face and clothes but she's determined in her attempts.

"Fine," John sighs before he unfolds the serviette, tucks it under her chin and pulls the sleeves of her shirt a little higher. "Have at it, Miss Independence," he adds fondly.

"It's fascinating," admits Sherlock as he eyes how both girls eat.

"Her temperament?" asks John.

"No, the competitiveness," he clarifies. "At least we know that they will be stimulating each other's growth," he adds.

"We already learned that they both have a mischievous streak," says John with a soft snort. "Potty training will be hell."

"It can't be that bad," says Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you pure, innocent snowflake…" sighs John. "If you heard even the half of the stories about potty training, I heard…" he shakes his head.

"Can't be worse than a floater," shrugs Sherlock. "Or a meat puzzle."

John snorts, "We will shelve that discussion until after one of them will put a full potty on the top of her head."

"We will be there to ensure that it doesn't happen," he counters.

"You aren't going to put a serviette on her?" asks John.

"What for?" he shrugs. "She's already dirty. So am I."

"And you just don't care?" asks John curiously.

"Why do you think I'm wearing something that looks like it came out of your closet rather than mine?" he replies dryly.

John doesn't answer immediately and they both know what went through his mind. If John had seen him in the same attire without Josie, he would turn the entire flat upside down looking for drugs, the search would have been followed by a drug-test and that would be it.

"You look like a train wreck," says John finally. "Clothes practical but still weird but the beard…"

"Josie likes it," quips Sherlock.

"Josie is wearing split pea soup on herself, her fashion sense shouldn't be trusted," replies John.

Sherlock looks at Rosie, who's trying to share the spoon with her father and says dryly, "Using that logic in a moment your sense of fashion shouldn't be trusted either."

John looks down at Rosie and straightens the spoon before Rosie pours the soup on both of them. Then he leans over and eats what's on it.

"Should have brought the bib," sighs John.

The waitress arrives and they change their bowls for plates. Once the waitress leaves John shifts the contents of the plates until on both plates there are some mashed potatoes as well as chips and baby carrots as well as spinach.

For few minutes they eat in silence, mostly busing themselves with ensuring that spinach and mashed potatoes don't end on the floor. Carrots, fries and chicken goes down easily with both girls and they're mostly successful in putting them in their mouths. But because they're smaller and their tummies fill up faster than theirs soon enough both Rosie and Josie flop back against John's and Sherlock's stomachs with a sigh.

"That competitive streak might be good," says John as he looks down at Rosie. "That's the most I saw her eat during a single meal in a week. Though I hope that it won't be too good."

"Count your blessings," says Sherlock, feeling suddenly grim when he remembers that Josie in fact is a Holmes and that it means that she has a Holmesian appetite.

"Remembered that, didn't you?" asks John dryly. "Here is to Josie not having your appetite," he adds before he toasts her with his tea.

"Better mine than Mycroft's," mutters Sherlock. "Although as long as she has my energy levels, she should be fine even with Mycroft's appetite," he shrugs. "You on the other hand should watch out for Rosie."

"Not Rosie," sighs John.

Is he denying or… Oh, murderous, criminal wife that named their daughter after herself. It's just a name but neither he nor John were fans of it, him more than John.

"If not Rosie then what?" he asks curiously. "Katherine?" he asks, remembering John's suggestion

"Not sure," admits John. "Better Katherine than Rosamund, that's certain, but I'm not sure if it suits her."

"You know what I think about it," says Sherlock simply before he takes a bite of his chicken.

The comment catches John while he's rising his fork to his mouth and he sighs, "It's not exactly…" he pauses and shakes his head. "Alright, I'll bite," he adds after a moment. "Why?" he asks.

"Why not?" Sherlock answers the question with one of his own.

"Because I know you," says John. "You can be an arrogant git at times but there's arrogance and there's…" he pauses. "It's not arrogance, so what it is?"

The only chance for any living Sherlock to be a Sherlock Watson. It was the very first thing that came to his mind after he realised that he couldn't leave John with a love confession that would be soon followed with the news of his demise. He could die and leave handling passing the news of it to Mycroft and however Mycroft would have handled that he might lessen the blow of it, for John's sake. Saying 'I love you' prior to that? That was cruelty he wasn't capable of, at least to John.

He had a chance to think of it, the name as much as the aborted confession later on and he realised that he still wanted John's daughter to be named Sherlock for another reason.

He pokes one of the baby carrots and finally stabs it with a fork, puts it in his mouth and chews it thoroughly. Then he takes a sip of his tea and leans back against his chair.

"She's your daughter," he says finally. "That alone makes her remarkable," he adds. "But is a bad thing to want her to be even more special?" he asks.

John doesn't say a thing but his mouth twitches slightly. He's thinking it, the git. Sherlock smirks in return.

"You're right, Sherlock isn't a girls name," he admits. "But," he adds before John has a chance to say anything, "the only other Sherlock I ever knew was the most formidable woman I ever met. No other woman could even come close to match her. Her full name was Sherlock Victoria Watson, she survived two world wars, married and buried seven husbands. Always remained a Watson though," he smiles, more to himself than to John, "always claimed that as a Watson she was born and as a Watson she would die. Which she did," he smirks, "day after her ninetieth birthday during which she claimed that living this long was simply indecent. So, after the party ended, she drank her glass of sherry, headed to bed and never woke up," he pauses and he smiles. "Curious thing about the husbands, four of them were buried as Watsons although only the first one was born as one, the other three just kept their own names."

"How did you meet her?" asks John curiously.

"According to Mummy, three days after I was born, I was handed over to her by Daddy for inspection," he answers simply. "She asked for my name, got told that it was Sherlock and then she huffed that Sherlock is a girls name and slapped William and Scott on both ends of it," he adds dryly. "Mummy and Daddy didn't dare to oppose her so I was eventually baptised William Sherlock Scott. William after her first husband and Scott after the last one, from what I've been told he was still breathing for another year or two after my birth."

"Relative?" asks John.

"The great-grandmother I mentioned earlier today," explains Sherlock. "Truly formidable woman," he sighs. "Adored as much as feared. The final judge before whom the whole family went for advice, surprisingly considering her age it remained sound until her death, not even a hint of dementia. And if you played cards against her, she could whip you like a cream to a Sunday pie," he smirks.

"From your mum's or dad's side?" asks John curiously.

"Daddy's," answers Sherlock briskly. "The Holmeses always relayed on their fortune even though some, older generations supposedly managed to produce some highly intelligent individuals. Mycroft is named after one of them. Beats me which one though. Some sort of grand or great-granduncle, I'm not sure and I don't exactly care," he shrugs.

"Neither do I," agrees John. "What about Sherlock though?"

"She was born 13th January 1892," he says and he smirks to himself for a moment but then he sobers slightly as he adds, "to a retired army surgeon, kill me I have no idea in which regiment he served and where. I only know that he was an army surgeon and what his name was and what his wife's name was as well," he pauses. "Seemed fitting at the time I suggested her name," he grimaces. "Anyway, her parents were a Doctor John Watson and Mary Watson, no idea what her maiden name was…"

John snorts at that.

"… and supposedly she was named after a dear friend of her father and Queen Victoria obviously," he finishes. "No idea what happened to him other than that he died in some tragic circumstances a year prior to her birth and that his death left the doctor bereft with grief badly enough to foist his name upon his baby daughter," he adds swiftly. "The rest of it isn't exactly pretty," he grimaces, "his wife died in confinement shortly after. He tried his best but we're talking about grieving Victorian men with almost non-existent emotional support and an infant to care for. In the summer one of colleagues from university took pity on him and invited both of them to their house in the country. Hopkins, I think was his name," he pauses, "doesn't matter really. What matters is that Doctor Hopkins and his wife were a barren couple that quickly got charmed by Sherlock's everything. So, after a lot of internal debates and some agonising he decided that his daughter deserved better…"

John is frowning, the story is too close to home for him so Sherlock needs to finish it fast before John starts to get any ideas from it.

"I'm not sure how it looked from legal angle but the Hopkins took in little Sherlock and raised her as their own daughter, with her own father serving the role of a godfather," he says quickly. "Then in 1902 or 1903, it's unclear in which, Doctor Hopkins died in an automobile accident and Doctor Watson, the good family friend that he was, came to help the bereft widow handle the legal matters. He was so helpful that as soon as it was socially appropriate, he turned Mrs Doctor Hopkins into a Mrs Doctor Watson," he finishes.

"And that's why Sherlock remained a Watson," says John.

"Probably," agrees Sherlock. "Either way they both lived to 1919 and died during flu pandemic but not before watching their daughter marry, twice on that. Husband number one was some supposedly devilishly handsome medical student, William Watson. Unfortunately, they married at the end of the summer of 1914 and he was dead before year was out. Husband number two was a returning army surgeon, Samuel I think, she married him in January 1919 and buried him by December of the same year…"

"Sounds like a black widow," says John dryly.

"Slightly unlucky, don't forget the war and the pandemic," quips Sherlock. "Number three married her because he was looking for a nursemaid under the guise of a wife. She gave him three years of her care and that was all that she gave him. She didn't give him a child or taken his name. Number four she met when number three's health took turn to worse. He was so besotted with her and she with him that they married as soon as it was appropriate and he agreed without much protest to not only allow her to remain a Watson but he also decided to take her name. Because Doctor Sieger Watson had a better ring to it than Doctor Sieger Black-Turnip."

John snorts.

"Unlike with the other two they stayed married for twenty years and would have probably stayed together longer if he didn't volunteer to re-join the army during second world war. A stray bullet got him in November 1944 but on the plus side he managed to weasel out of the command a two day leave to see their only daughter, Josephine marry an aspiring painter Francis Vernet," he continues. "My father who was born after five months of pregnancy…."

"Has to be a lie…." John interjects.

"Of course, it is," smirks Sherlock. "Grandma Josephine was four months pregnant at the time she got married," he adds. "Francis believed himself to be a very talented painter but the only thing he was good at was painting rooms which was how he made a living and knocking his wife up," he grimaces. "In nearly sixteen years of marriage they had fifteen children, twelve of which lived until adulthood. She eventually succumbed to puerperal fever after the last one and died. As a wife she was very fond and very merciful towards her bum of a husband and she allowed him to work on his paintings rather than help her with children. So, it wasn't a wonder that Francis lost his marbles when she died. Left up to him they would have ended at an orphanage but Grandma Sherlock stepped in and put a fear of God in him with the little help of husband number five who was a retired army psychiatrist and together they promised him what would happen to him if he as much as thought about it. He kept fumbling for few years but by 1965 he drank himself to death."

"So, she had to raise them anyway," says John.

"Without a blink and on her own because her husband decided to die too. Daddy and my uncles did their best to help her though. But she was an enterprising woman and at the age of seventy-five she married a fifty years old widowed doctor that always wanted children of his own but because his beloved wife was barren, he couldn't have them," he adds. "She outlived him and buried him after six years of marriage, last two of which she spent nursing him after a stroke."

"And then she married his physician?" John suggests.

"Not his physician," says Sherlock dryly. "He was a young thirty-something with a wife and two children of his own but his father got widowed recently so she picked him up, pretty easily on that. He was only seventy at the time."

"Sounds truly formidable," agrees John, "if a bit depressing on the marriage front."

"Oh, she loved them all," Sherlock counters, "maybe with an exception of number three. According to Daddy some of my uncles and cousins managed to get named after each of them. Even I was named after two of them. Weirdly, aside of Uncle Frank, there are no variations of Francis in the family and even Uncle Frank started going by his middle name as soon as his daddy dearest kicked proverbial bucket," he adds.

"But there was only one Sherlock," points out John.

"Well, I was born during a blizzard and Grandma was in Scotland, visiting one of my aunts who also gave birth and…" he pauses and smirks. "Apparently during every attempt at a sonogram to assess my condition as well as to ascertain what I was going to be, I was one lazy bugger who kept folding and turning himself in such a way that it was impossible to say with a hundred percent certainty what I was. So, Mummy got told that I was a girl. Imagine her and Daddy's surprise however when the day of my birth arrived and rather than with a girl, they were told to expect they ended up with this," he adds and motions at himself. "Everything was prepared for a girl, even the name and there I was, definitely not a girl."

John smiles, with a small, fond smile before he asks, "No female cousin with that name though?"

"Not the first one though. As formidable as she was the spouses of my aunts and uncles believed that Sherlock wasn't a girl's name. But few of them were gullible enough to agree to that middle name. Mummy was the only one who wanted her daughter to be called Sherlock," he answers. "As you can see, she didn't exactly succeed."

"I'm sure she tried her best," says John dryly.

Sherlock shrugs and watches as John resumes eating. Part of him wants to hear John's decision immediately but contemplative silence is better than a straightforward no. So, he accepts it.

Then a thought hits him.

If I knew about Daisy right away what name for her, I would have chosen?

Not Daisy, that much he was certain. No, he would have gone with something more ambitious than a flower if just as much plain on the surface unless someone asked him for a clarification. Except knowing what he knows now…

"Sherlock?" John's voice tears him from his thoughts.

"Yeah?" he mumbles.

"I asked what you were thinking," says John.

"About?" he asks.

"Just now," replies John.

"Sorry," he sighs. "I was thinking about which name I would have given Daisy if I knew about her from the beginning," he clarifies.

"If I had to take a stab in the dark, I would say some variation of Marie," says John pensively. "After Marie Currie," he adds with a small smile.

"That obvious?" he sighs.

"Please, you're a chemist and what better name your daughter would have deserved if not the name of the first woman to win the Nobel price and the only one that won two of them," answers John. "Also, the books on the Currie family legacy are the only leisure books I ever caught you reading when we lived together. If you weren't purposely ruining the endings of my crime novels for me, that's it," he adds dryly.

Sherlock smiles softly, John knows him well even if the conclusion was an obvious one.

"I could always go with Salome," he counters with a small.

"Which would be shortened to Sally and I know how fond you're of Donovan," replies John. "Also, unless the circumstances changed since we last talked about it, Donovan is the only DI who has yet to ask for your assistance."

"Won't happen," he shakes his head. "Matter of personal pride. Woman of colour in her position…" he grimaces. "Hopkins doesn't care much about it but she's younger than Donovan and hadn't been passed over for promotion as many times as Donovan had. But then again Hopkins is much more willing to think outside the box so there's that. So, what was the question?"

"There was no question, just a statement," replies John. "I'll take it."

"Really?" asks Sherlock, trying his best to keep the shock from his voice.

"Not as a first name though," he clarifies. "It would be confusing and I want to avoid that. So, I'll go with Katherine Sherlock and once she grows up a bit, she can decide for herself which one suits her better," he adds and looks at his daughter with a fond smile.

"I can sense a winner," says Sherlock with a small smile.

"I wouldn't be that sure," quips John. "There's Princess Kate and Aunt Kathy wasn't a slouch either."

"Popularity versus uniqueness," shrugs Sherlock. "Odds are that when she will go to school, she might be one of the few Katherine Watsons but if she goes by Sherlock, she would be the only one Sherlock Watson."


	6. Chapter 6

"_I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance."_

_Beryl Markham_

**John**

Sherlock leaves the table to clean up Josie and change her into fresh clothes from the diaper-bag. John stays behind with Katie who slipped into a nap. He looks down at her with a fond smile. She's going to wake up as soon as he will move and he will have to move to dress her up in that awful, fluffy romper so they can leave.

He isn't sure what should happen next though. On one hand they need a second car-seat and badly on that. On the other he needs to have a long overdue conversation with a certain pathologist. And if he had a third hand to spare, he would just go back to the flat to pack up his things because at the rate Josie is going and how laid-back Sherlock is about her getting dirty, they will need more clothes. Blessedly Katie and Josie fit the same size from what he saw so until they have a chance to get more things for Josie, she can wear Katie's.

As he goes over the conversation which they just had he realises that he never explicitly stated during the course of it that he would move back to Baker Street. He listened though to Sherlock plan to remodel it with interest and small dose of apprehension.

This was Sherlock, a week after John beat him into a pulp, not even a few hours after he learned that John's lying, backstabbing, murderous wife killed his daughter and rather than taking Josie and running as far away from him as it was humanly possible he was making plans to include John and his daughter into his new life with his granddaughter. As if nothing happened, as if John's presence at Baker Street was essential to his contentment. No doubts, no second thoughts, just hardcore – if theoretical at the time – nesting. And John kept pushing him because he wanted to know what were Sherlock's limits.

Sherlock didn't have any. The Work? Let's renovate C and turn it into lab/office space. Lack of space? There's space, it just needs some work and a lot of heavy lifting. He was even willing to give up his own bedroom without a fuss because having the girls in en suite would be more practical.

No hesitation whatsoever, just 'come to live with us.

And John wanted to say yes immediately because Baker Street is still a home for him even though he only lived there for about a year and a half, plus the few months he spent there after Mary shot Sherlock. In overall he lived at his own flat for twice as long and it still was just a flat rather than home.

But he couldn't say yes, not immediately, not without making Sherlock see how frayed their relationship was, how much damage they caused to each other. The conversation that followed brought Sherlock to tears, the real tears that he tried to hide rather than show and blamed on pollens out of all things.

At least Sherlock agreed to therapy and he desperately needs one, John knows that now. Because if something that was supposed to be a three months assignment had stretched into over twenty-eight months and ended with an extraction by Mycroft of all people it had to be bad.

John didn't spend three years in Afghanistan working in black ops but after Moran the command decided that it was handy to have him as a backup if one was required. Especially once James saw…

He shakes his head. He learned from autopsy that you cannot save someone who doesn't want to be saved and you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. He got over it, it took him a while but he got over it. The invitation to his wedding wasn't a courtesy extended to his commanding officer but an attempt to prove a point to one stubborn, closed off bugger that things can change if you let people in.

After he was discharged, he tried to reach out to James who was medically discharged mere six months before him but he hit a wall with him. He kept trying but with his own setting depression and overwhelming lack of anything, from support to purpose, he just gave up. He had given up on everything so much that if his paths hadn't cross with Sherlock when they did, he would most likely die by his own hand before the year of 2010 was out.

It took Sherlock Holmes to get over James Sholto and it took Mary Bloody Morstan to even attempt to rebuilt his life from the wreckage that Sherlock's death left behind.

And now he is back to where he had been six years ago. Life that he knew, the lie that he built with his assassin wife is in ruins. Once again, he is a poor sod that the neighbours (if they bothered at all) pity when they see him. And once more Sherlock Holmes is willing to change his life for him, even at the cost of his own.

But this time he will have to be braver because life just doesn't throw you third chances if you screw up first two. This time he will have to show Sherlock that he is important, not due to his work but due to who he is. He will have to prove to him that he is loved and cherished and that if he wants to then he will be loved and cherished for the rest of his life.

"What's going on?" Sherlock's voice tears him from his thoughts.

"Just thinking," he sighs and he smiles softly at Sherlock who is holding freshly changed Josie that's pulling at his hair.

Sherlock quirks his left eyebrow at him, prompting him to elaborate.

"Remodelling the kitchen," he says dryly.

"What's wrong with it?" asks Sherlock suspiciously as he sits down. "Everything is fine."

"Everything is fine for two bachelors who don't mind a cooker with a wonky burner on the stove. Everything is fine for two bachelors even if one of them has a burning passion for not cleaning dishes after himself. Storage space in there is also fine for two bachelors. Also, you can take that fridge to the lab because the only dead meat that would be going into the new one would be the one that's considered edible by general population," John counts out.

"Why do you need to remodel whole kitchen though?" asks Sherlock. "All you need is a new cooker, new fridge and a dishwasher."

"Consider it a courtesy to our long-suffering landlady for putting up with us and two soon to be toddlers," replies John. "Plus, we really need storage space."

"I can practically see the island in the middle of the kitchen," mutters Sherlock and shakes his head.

"More counter and storage spaces," John points out.

"Kitchen table," says Sherlock.

"Small, low, slightly rickety, had been through a lot. And what's wrong with an island in the middle of the kitchen?" he asks.

"What isn't?" sighs Sherlock. "It's a symbol of status, an illusion of luxury that's sold to people to clutter the kitchen space and remove the family life from it."

"If one will let it leave the kitchen," says John dryly. "Anyway, we will need more counter space. Tell you what, I'll leave terrorising the designer to you as long as we're getting a dishwasher. Can be small as long as it's not crappy and easy to operate."

In response Sherlock blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then he smiles in that slightly crooked smile that means that he's up to something.

John should be worried but he cannot bring himself to bother. Sherlock isn't a big fan of changes and the only thing to make him feel better about changes is giving him control over it.

"Why would I need to terrorise a designer if I can do it myself?" he asks simply.

"When did you learn how to design a kitchen?" asks John curiously.

"One of the summers while I was doing bachelor degree," answers Sherlock. "I failed a spontaneous drug test that Mycroft foisted on me. It was one of his stipulations for me to get regular access to the trust fund. I didn't really need it, I had stipends and I earned any additional money I needed by doing detective work, mostly on cheating spouses. That's why I'm so sick of it now. People change, their motivations and behaviour don't. But if I told Mycroft to stuff it, he could make even that difficult for me so I accepted them. What was truly ironic about it was that instead of simply getting high the day before that I gorged on a poppy-seed cake from the bakery. But that explanation wasn't getting to Mummy or Mycroft and they wanted to send me to rehab, one of those old mansions that got turned into a rehab clinic. If you saw one, you saw them all. Some of them are actually successful but…" he grimaces. "Daddy offered an alternative in the form of spending the summer working with him and the local carpenter. I still had to pass mandatory drug tests and any failed one would send me to rehab but it was better than rehab. Physical work wore me down and mental one was stimulating enough for me to not need additional stimulants. Plus, I got to work with Daddy…" he pauses.

John waits for him to continue.

"You saw enough of them to glimpse what kind of people they are," sighs Sherlock. "Mummy means well but…" he grimaces "she tends to be overbearing and obnoxiously talkative. If it was anything remotely relevant or interesting it wouldn't be so bad. She's a mathematician with interest in physics but I never managed to get her to talk about her intellectual interests no matter how hard I tried to steer a conversation that way. What she'll actually want to talk with you is mindless gossip or what Daddy lost this time…" he grimaces again. "She always had been like that; she's caring and loving underneath but there always comes a certain point when it's too much."

"And your father was always her exact opposite," nods John.

"Not exact, they have similar interests but unlike her, Daddy was quiet. He didn't prompt you to talk when you didn't want to but he made you feel that you could if you wanted to. After the accident, whatever it was caused by, I didn't talk for over a year and I was oversensitive to certain noises, I couldn't stand the chatter for too long. So, I spent a lot of time hiding in Daddy's shed. I liked to watch him work. For me, back then, he talked the right amount which was little to none and never about nonsense stuff like whose daughter went out with whom and why," answers Sherlock slowly.

"I never saw you doing any carpentry around the flat," admits John.

"Strictly speaking it wasn't carpentry," shrugs Sherlock. "Measuring, heavy lifting, listening to idiots and putting stuff together. The most important thing about it was that it got me out of the house where I would constantly have to be under Mummy's watchful eye. Also, back then Daddy was smoking so I could always pilfer one or two from him."

**Breaking Badly**

After lunch they end up at the flat even though John intended to head to Bart's first and foremost because the confrontation with Molly wasn't something that could wait. But Katie spilled some juice on herself in the car, Sherlock then muttered something about running out of clothes making John miss the right turn and they just found themselves heading in the direction of the flat.

I would have to do it today eventually, mussed John to himself when he realised that/.

He leaves Sherlock with the girls in the living-room before he picks the suitcases and heads to the bedroom to start packing. Only once his clothes are gone from the dressers, he looks at the suitcases and around the room.

It's a depressing sight. He's nearly forty-five years old, he hadn't been in the army for six and a half years and his entire life still fits into two big suitcases. Downstairs in the living-room is his laptop and some books he would like to bring but at the moment they aren't his top priority. He'll have to come back for them later, Katie's furniture too but for now she can share with Josie the portable cot in which she was sleeping while she and John stayed at Baker Street.

He picks the remaining suitcase and heads to the nursery. Purposely he doesn't pack the stuff which Katie managed to outgrow and that which he hates. To tell the truth he hates the entire thing. The furniture, the colour-scheme. He had no part in arranging it, the room was waiting for Katie's arrival when he moved back home. When asked about it, Mary only shrugged and said that she wasn't sure whatever or not he was going to return at all and that she simply paid some guy to paint it and another to put the furniture together.

Taking it to Baker Street should be a reasonable thing. Money doesn't grow on trees and the furniture is reasonably new enough for Sherlock to hunt down another cot for Josie…

But nearly all of it, with the exception of some sets of clothes and toys bought by John himself, Sherlock, Molly and Mrs H, was Mary's choice. Some other stuff is hand me downs from his colleagues at the clinic but Katie's room, as much as the flat despite being John's is very Mary.

It's revolting.

In packing Katie's stuff, he purposely leaves behind the stuff over which Mary cooed, there isn't a lot of it amongst the things that fit Katie. Mary foresaw the fact that Katie would need bigger clothes and she bought a few pieces before she pulled a runner but most of the stuff that fits Katie now is John's choices or stuff that John received and decided to keep.

That stuff goes into the suitcase, along with Katie's plushies and a few children's books that were gifts too. Once done with packing he takes the new pack of nappies, Mary was the only one who bothered with pulling them out of the pack and storing away separately. When he was leaving in the morning, he stuffed the ones from the old pack into the diaper-bag knowing that he had more than enough of them. For one child.

Once done with the nursery he comes back into the bedroom. He double checks the dressers. Only Mary's stuff is left in them. Then he spots the box.

After Mary died, he hid her jewellery box in her dresser, stuffed underneath her lingerie, out of sight. But the earrings she was wearing when she died as well as her wedding and engagement rings Molly returned to him when he told her that he was planning to cremate Mary. She left the box on the top of the dresser and in the past weeks he couldn't find the strength to place them with the others.

He opens the box slowly; the earrings and her rings are still there. He looks at them, thinking about the moments when he put them on her fingers. During a repeated and uninterrupted engagement dinner and while he was saying the vows.

Their sight is revolting.

He should have thought it through. He should have waited a little while longer before proposing. At the very least he should have asked Sherlock what he thought about Mary before proposing but no, he went with it fearing that if he allowed Sherlock to have a little more control within a few months he would have ended back at Baker Street right where he started and he would be counting minutes until a repeat of Sherlock's fall will happen again.

He slides his wedding ring off his finger and drops it into the box before he slams it shut (as much as one can slam this thing shut).

Funny thing, the ring was so light that in everyday tasks that its weight seemed no existent but the very moment his ring finger is empty again he feels lighter, not exactly better but lighter.

I should have done it the moment I put her in the ground, he thinks to himself. At least now she's going there for good.

He brings the suitcases down, wanting to stop for a moment on the stairs because Katie and Josie are on the floor in the living room playing throw and pick the rattle while Sherlock is snooping in the kitchen. But he knows that if he stops with three suitcases on the stairs he would be risking falling down.

Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he puts the suitcases down and takes his time to watch the girls. The game is even, the rattle keeps flying high and wide enough for both to not be hit by it (which is weird because Katie does have a splendid aim). The one that throws it giggles while the other crawls to fetch it. It's endearing.

John smiles to himself, they're going to be fine.

Once he has his fill of sheer cuteness and joy, he heads to the kitchen to check what Sherlock is doing. He's using Katie's basket, in which she takes her afternoon nap while John is usually reading or watching TV on mute, to store away the stuff from the kitchen. Mostly it's Katie's utensils, her bowls, bottles, Sippy-cup, her medicine, but there's also John's RAMC mug in there, both boxes of Aptamil (the new one and the old one) and few jars of fruit mush (the only processed baby food which Katie eats).

"Thanks," he tells him gently.

"I wasn't sure what else you want to take," says Sherlock sheepishly.

"Exactly that," says John as he eyes the contents of the basket.

There's still some room left so he heads to the fridge and picks up the new bottle of milk (because it's always useful), he also takes new jar of jam and some stuff from the salad drawer that could turn bad if he left it for too long. Then he goes for big shopping bag and starts collecting the rest. Heavy stuff ends at the bottom, lighter on the top. He empties the cabinets next, he leaves Mary's fancy tea and coffee tins, he never used them (unless she was around) and picks his tea boxes and a jar of instant coffee.

Once done with the kitchen he heads upstairs to pick up his gym bag and his backpack. He returns with them to the living-room to pack it.

He might come back for the TV and the DVD player later on but he leaves them for now. Instead he puts away his movie collection, purposely bypassing Mary's choices (mostly romantic comedies – she was really selling her retired assassin turned stay at home mum and she actually enjoyed some of them). He mulls over the video from the wedding because it has Mary in it but it also has Sherlock and his speech (and that's worth preserving).

Mary can be edited out of it; he thinks spitefully even if the idea of editing the bride from the wedding video is ridiculous. Later on, most probably he will go with the idea of Mary being barren and Katie being born by a surrogate. Sherlock's birthday video comes next.

"Is that what I think it is?" asks Sherlock from behind his back.

"Yep," John confirms.

"Why are you taking it?" he asks.

"Blackmail material," replies John. "And it's actually funny now that you're here."

"It was ridiculous," mutters Sherlock. "I thought that Greg destroyed it."

"I'm glad that he didn't," quips John and he sighs. "It was true, you know. The paper and what you said about my friends. They disappeared pretty fast once I needed support. The only ones that tried to maintain some contact are still deployed or completely barmy," he adds fondly.

"You are worth it though," says Sherlock simply. "Regardless of what you believe about yourself you are worth fighting for."

"As are you," John says as he turns around.

Sherlock shrugs and looks away to the girls who are now playing tug of war with the rattle.

"When we first met…" Sherlock starts, "and for a longer while after," he pauses. "I was thirty-three and I had been alone for most of my life, my character was set as were my vices," he sighs. "I'm arrogant, I can be obnoxious but…" he pauses again. "You kept holding me to a higher standard and slowly I found myself wanting to meet it. I wanted to become the man you already thought I was. I'm still not that guy but with you around I find it easier. You keep me right, still do and…"

As Sherlock is speaking John puts the bag down and steps towards him. Then gently he places his right hand on Sherlock's left elbow and tugs him in his direction.

"Come here," he says softly as he steps closer and wraps his arms around Sherlock's back.

Sherlock mutely follows, a little startled but he steps closer, leaning forwards slightly as he is wrapping his arms around John's shoulders so John's chin rests on his shoulder.

John takes a deep breath inhaling Sherlock's scent in the process. He isn't wearing any aftershave (because obviously he didn't shave) but he doesn't smell like his usual fancy citrus bodywash either. No, it's a very generic but not unpleasant minty scent of John's shower gel (bottle of which most probably was left behind at Baker Street). Josie had to really keep him on his toes if he used the first thing, he got his hands on. In the past he used to complain about John's preferred brands of shampoos and shower gels like the posh git he was. On several occasions he used freshly purchased items for experiments, John was patient but he finally got him back after the chilli thing in the shower gel with an itchy powder. The conflict most probably would have escalated and lasted more than three days if Mrs H didn't tell them off for using her bathroom while they have a perfectly functioning bathroom upstairs. After that the experiments ceased but not the complaints.

The change is endearing, probably not conscious but still touching.

John shifts his head slightly to the left and allows himself another deep breath with a subtle sniff. Yep, definitely used the shower gel to wash his hair too. Five years ago, he would be moaning and groaning if he didn't have access to his shampoo and conditioner and today while having it, he still bypassed his usual stuff and routines.

With being as focused as he is on breathing in Sherlock and keeping his groin away it takes John a moment to realise that Sherlock's shoulders are shaking slightly.

"It will be okay," he whispers because things aren't okay now.

They will be though because they will be together again.

"We're going to be okay," he adds.

**Sherlock**

He's tearing up, again. But he can't bring himself to bother because John is leaving this place, John is moving back to Baker Street with his daughter. John is also initiating physical contact to which Sherlock will never say no. He had so little chances to touch John since returning to London that he wants every single contact to last as long as it can. So, he isn't planning to let go until John does and then he will blame his tears on dust or John's aftershave.

Suddenly he fills a tug on the leg of his jeans. He blinks, quickly wipes tears from his eyes and pulls away from John just far enough to look down at the floor.

Josie is holding tightly on his jeans while she's hoisting herself upright. On her left he spies Kate or Katie (he would have to settle with John which version he would prefer) already standing and holding on John's trousers. Ah, the competitiveness at its finest, he smiles to himself.

He makes no effort to stabilise her, the floor is carpeted and Josie has a padded bottom so while not exactly pleasant plopping down won't do her any harm. Her legs are a bit too close to his to make standing easier but she clings to his leg like a little monkey and finally hoists herself upright with a big grin on her face.

Her joy is practically bubbling out of her and she announces happily, "Mama."

Oh.

Daisy lived alone. Josie only had a mother and no one to try a 'dada' on (because he cannot picture Daisy allowing Josie to call Mycroft that).

"Close enough," he tells her as he completely lets go of John in order to bend down to pick her up.

From the corner of his eye he sees John doing the same with his daughter.

"Can you say Dada?" he asks her.

"Mama," Josie says.

"Dada," he repeats.

"Mama," Josie states.

"Dada," he tries again.

"Mama," repeats Josie and this time she's joined by Katie.

He tears his eyes from Josie and look at John in shock. John is smiling softly as he looks from his daughter to Sherlock and Josie.

"Who is that?" he asks Katie as he points at Sherlock.

"Mama," states John's little girl simply.

"And who is that?" John asks as he points at himself.

"Baba," Katie announces.

"Ba ba," he hears Josie's squeal in his ear.

"Not daddy?" he asks John, feeling a little nervous.

"My father was dad," says John simply. "With Katie I always knew that I wanted to be called papa. So, we can go with dada for you and papa for me to not confuse them. For now, let's settle for what we have. We can worry about extending their vocabulary later, Mama."

"I have a beard," mutters Sherlock in protest.

But he cannot exactly argue with the logic of nearly one-year olds, he tries to though while John hands Katie over to him and tells him that he needs to clean up the boot to make place for the suitcases.

The minutes during which John is away he spends at saying dada for every mama that the girls bestow on him. At some point he even attempts to switch, hoping that for every mama he will hear a dada in return but it doesn't work.

He is Mama and will most likely remain Mama for a while.

It could be worse.

After few minutes John returns with a stroller and Sherlock looks at him questioningly.

"It's a single and we need one with two seats," John explains. "Additionally, it's hideous, unstable and has a miniscule shopping basket. Not to mention, Mary chose it and I'm up to here," he waves his hand over his head, "with Mary's choices. It's the highest time for my own although I'm welcome to hearing your opinions on the subject."

"What sort of opinions?" asks Sherlock.

"You know, tandem or side-by-side, umbrella versus full stroller, the usual," answers John.

"I don't exactly have an opinion," says Sherlock. "What's the difference?"

"Why don't you research that while we're on the road," suggests John. "Because we really need a second car-seat."

"Then we should get one," says Sherlock. "For all the talking about car-seats we passed like three shops in which we could get one on the way here."

**Breaking Badly**

They wind up in one of this all for the baby shops where they can get everything from the much needed second car-seat to, at the moment less needed because we have Katie's travel cot upstairs, nursery furniture.

The car-seats are the first thing they buy. Two of them, because John reasoned out that he will have to upgrade Katie's in few weeks anyway. It's a fancy growing set in a completely not fancy black & grey colour that would see both girls up to 25 kilos so they won't have to exchange them for a longer while.

Once he pays for the car-seats John leaves the shop to install them, leaving Sherlock in front of the display of pushchairs. Apparently installing car-seats takes some time and John doesn't want to do it in hurry.

The display of twin pushchairs isn't big (compared to singles at the very least) but varies in weight of the individual sets as well as hideousness of the décor. The only thing he learned from his quick research on the subject is that for some reason most companies that produce them go for black or something eyesore.

Then there's the dilemma of side-by-side versus tandem. Tandem makes more sense because it will most certainly fit through any door without a problem (as well as check outs) but it also means having one at the front and one at the back which coupled with the girls' competitiveness is a recipe for a fight every time they will head out.

So, side-by-side it will have to be but which one? Should he go for lightweight umbrella pushchair or more sturdy and heavier one?

He needs to ask John about his preferences. So, he only notes his own preference, a side-by-side which seats can recline completely flat, one that fits through standard doorway with ease and comes in purple (other colours too but he likes purple).

Nursery furniture is something they both should agree on although Sherlock himself prefers standard cots without fancy trimmings or in weird shapes, in white or light wood because dark wood would be a bit overwhelming in a room that's not exactly big. Well, it's big enough for him and would be big enough for the girls until they will start school. Plus, white or light wood will fit with the current décor of the room so they won't have to paint it.

Or should they?

He used to smoke in the bedroom (on and off over the years) but it doesn't change the fact that the smoke and the dirt had a chance to get into the walls and wallpaper.

No, they definitely need to paint the nursery (and scrub it clean before painting or hire a guy to do that) and again the colour scheme is something that should be agreed upon because the last time Mary decided everything for herself.

He's still partial to green if John asks. Green goes well with any colour of the wood but he will survive pink if that would be John's choice.

So instead of looking after nursery sets, he takes the girls to clothes section where he gives them a free reign in choosing outfits. Because even though John did get clothes for them after today Sherlock knows that there isn't such a thing as enough clothes with the babies.

Over the course of his trip through clothing side of the business he learns that both girls like yellow stuff, are disinterested in pink stuff and given the choice between pastel pink and pastel blue they prefer pastel blue. Dark blue is treated with a grimace, turquoise regarded with interest and green of any kind is favoured over red. They're both disinterested in skirts and dresses (which is more than fine with Sherlock) although he gets them a fancier looking dress each for their upcoming birthday party. Because he knows that there will be a birthday party even though he's not a big fan of any gatherings.

His cruise through the clothing section is slow and the cart fills in with stuff pretty steadily. He gets them long-sleeved shirts as well as t-shirt, he throws in a few nice and soft looking jumpers each. There are socks and tights and trousers, shoes too, additional pair for Katie because he's planning to get her out of that awful fluffy romper as soon as he will find a suitable jacket or coat for her.

It's by the coats when he realises that John has been gone for an awfully long time. Installing car-seats is not rocket science even though Katie's original car-seat was a bit tricky to install. Even if he had two car-seats to install the second one should take less time to install than the first.

Just as he's reaching for his phone to call John, he spots John walking through the door.

**John**

As soon as he leaves the shop with the car-seats and he knows that he's out of Sherlock's line of sight he calls Molly.

"John, what's going on?" she asks quickly, there's a hint of worry in her voice.

"I need to talk with you, now," he tells her briskly. "Not over the phone. I have between twenty to forty minutes before Sherlock realises that I've been gone for longer than I should have been."

"John," she sighs.

Instead of clarifying he gives her the address of the nearby café and tells her to be there as fast as she can before he hangs up. Then he calls Greg and asks him to text him photographs of Mary and Daisy. Greg tries to protest but he tells him that he needs them because he needs to question someone.

Once done with that he actually focuses on the task at hand, which is installing the car-seats. The process itself goes far more smoothly than the last time he had to install one so once he's done with them and Katie's old car-seat is stored in the boot he heads to the café and waits for Molly.

She shows up after twenty minutes, slightly breathless and with her hair wild.

"What's going on?" she asks as she practically runs to his table.

Instead of answering John unlocks his phone and slides it over to her. After he finally received the text from Greg with attached image of Mary's photograph, he left it open on the sized-up photograph.

"Why don't you tell me?" he says coldly finally when Molly's eyes fix on the screen.

Molly's legs give out but she has enough grace to fall onto a chair rather than a floor.

"I don't know," she mumbles, her bottom lip is trembling.

"That's a lie," he snorts. "You do know, Doctor Hooper. After all, it's your signature that's on her autopsy report. Which had been filled on 21st November 2015, day after she lost her life to a fatal gunshot in London. Now explain to me how her body with a completely different fatal gunshot wound had ended in County Clare in Ireland nearly seven weeks after her death."

"I don't know," Molly whispers.

"Do I have to treat you like a hostile witness?" he asks icily. "Because I can. At this very moment you're looking up at charges for falsifying the evidence in a murder investigation which while open and shut is still technically a murder even if the victim of said murder wasn't killed when and where everyone believes she was. Then there's being an accessory to conspiracy to commit multiple murders, some of which took place and some of which had been cut short. So, are you going to talk or should I call Greg?" he asks lividly.

"Murders?" Molly whispers.

"A handful of individuals whose names I didn't bother to learn because I focused on the last one and the ones that had failed to come to fruition," he explains. "The murders that concern me the most is the murder of Daisy Holmes and planned murders of Sherlock Holmes and John and Rosamund Watson."

"Murders?" Molly echoes. "John, she loved you. If she did something, she did it for you," she blurts out.

"No," John shakes his head. "She did it for herself, Molly. I don't know what kind of a story she fed you and I don't frankly care because every word that left her mouth was a lie," he adds lividly. "What I care about is my daughter and the man whose daughter she," he jabs his forefinger at the phone, "murdered."

"But Sh…" Molly starts.

"Has had a daughter, one he didn't know about until her own daughter wounded in his care. But that issue isn't your problem. Your problem is falsified autopsy report that declares her," he jabs his finger at the phone again, "legally dead even though she wasn't dead and hadn't been until his daughter finally put a bullet in her brain but not before she put one through her heart. Now, tell me what I'm supposed to tell him when he will start wondering how this could happen. Because I'm hazarding a guess that no one told him who did her autopsy and who he can thank for not having a chance to talk with his daughter," he tells her.

"I don't know," Molly whispers tearfully. "I only know what she told me and even that wasn't much."

"But you still risked everything by trusting her word," he retorts. "Your career, your freedom, your friends and even their lives. Because that's what is and was at stake here."

Molly wipes tears from her eyes and sighs, "She came to me after the first busk, day after I think. Told me that she was worried about her past catching up with her. She clarified very little, only that she once had been a part of a group of…." she's struggling with finding the right word.

"Murderers for hire?" he suggests.

"Freelance agents that took dirty jobs that were too risky for the official MI5 and MI6 agents," she explains. "She told me that her last job went bad and that she barely made it out in one piece and breathing. That's why she decided to retire, she changed her name, her appearance, adopted a new identity. She really changed, John. You have to believe it."

He snorts, "No, she didn't. Keep going though."

"She was worried that this busk case Sherlock was working on would lead people who wanted her dead to her and to you," she says earnestly. "She didn't want to risk your lives..."

John snorts again.

"She told me that if the worst came to worst, she would need to do what…" she pauses, "what Sherlock did. I told her that I couldn't but then she brought in Mycroft."

"Personally?" John prompts her.

"More like invoked his name," she grimaces.

"And you just said, yes," he mutters.

"Not until Mycroft called me," she sighs. "It was after…" she shakes her head. "One day we just received a body that was donated for science. She fit Mary's height and physical type. We had to manipulate with her appearance but I was provided with the same equipment like the last time. A very life-like mask, contact lenses. The hair needed changing but…" she shakes her head again.

"You just let us believe in her death," he hisses lividly. "You, who saw me after Sherlock died, who knew that he wasn't dead in the first place. And you stood by my side, so eager to help while my life was falling apart. And Sherlock…" he can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

Sherlock was dying because Mary died. Admittedly he spiralled down the path of self-destruction because Mary told him to when John pushed him away but if Molly had even shred of decency, she should have come clean to both of them.

"You know what," he says suddenly. "I don't care anymore. Not about Mary, not about you. In fact, you can prepare yourself for removal of your name from any documents that would name her one of K… Rosie's guardians. Don't you even dare to step a foot inside Baker Street unless one of us will specifically invite you. I won't and I hazard a guess that after we will talk Sherlock might be not eager to extend an invitation himself. Speaking of Sherlock, don't contact him unless he will contact you first. There will be no curious deliveries unless he will specifically ask for some."

"But Sherlock," Molly protests. "He's not alright."

"Of course, he isn't," he hisses. "And he won't be for a longer while," he adds more calmly. "But he's no longer your concern, Molly. He's mine. Because there's one thing you didn't factor into this mess. Whatever it was, for whatever reason Mycroft agreed with that plan neither of you didn't factor into it the possibility that it could go sideways, and it had. A young, innocent girl is dead, another one will grow up without a mother because you people keep playing games with other peoples' lives. This. Ends. Now," he adds as he stands up and pockets his phone. "Farewell, Doctor Hooper, or not, I don't care," he throws the last sentence practically over his shoulder and he leaves the café.

Instead of heading back to the shop though he walks to the convenience store and buys a pack of low tar, menthol cigarettes and a lighter. Sherlock can't stand menthol or low tar cigarettes and John isn't exactly planning to start smoking. Not with two babies and a man with cracked ribs around. Certainly not after spending quite a lot of time on lecturing Sherlock about pros of not smoking.

But if there's anything that warrants a cigarette is this entire day. At every turn from the moment he woke up things started to pill up. Mrs H and her sister, Josie suddenly appearing at Baker Street, Daisy's message and search for her which concluded in the information about her death. Then Mary and now Molly.

Besides a cigarette is better than a glass of whiskey and he actually isn't planning to smoke more than a few of them. In a row.

Which he does. He chain smokes three of them in a row, watching the café intently until he finally sees Molly leave it. She doesn't see him and hails a cab.

"Good riddance," he mutters to himself as he lights up the fourth one.

Despite the certainty in his words earlier he is unsure about the certainty of his actions that he promised will be followed. For starters he's not Sherlock's master and he can't forbid him anything. Then there's Molly herself. She isn't a bad person but extremely gullible when it comes to people that earned her trust. Vide Jim from IT. Vide Mary and Mary managed to dupe even Sherlock so Molly does deserve some slack. But not before putting her feet into the fire to make her realise into how insanely dangerous game she got herself into.

If she goes to Greg, and most probably she will, because she trusts and likes him, Greg might protect her from her foolish actions. Like he protected John last week.

Greg is a saint and he deserves a basket.

And better friends, he muses. Speaking of better friends, I should definitely check on how Sherlock is doing.

He finishes the cigarette, throws the butt and the rest of the pack into the bin and heads back into the shop.

He looks for Sherlock at the display with the pushchairs. He didn't exactly expect him to stay there all the time while he was gone but from experience, he knows that while following someone is the best to start where you left off.

He intends to turn around and check the section with the clothes when behind his back he hears footsteps, a few mingled happy squeals which are followed by a deep inhale and a comment.

"You were smoking," Sherlock announces.

"Hello there," says John as he turns around, taking Katie from Sherlock's arms. "Did you miss me?"

"Baba," Katie states.

"Menthol and low tar," Sherlock mutters. "You hypocrite."

"Better that than whiskey," answers John.

"But menthol and low tar, you heathen," sighs Sherlock.

"Technically you're a heathen, most smokers these days go for low tar for health reasons," quips John. "Which makes them hypocrites who should quit for health reasons."

"Speaking of which," says Sherlock and he looks at John expectantly.

"I'm not planning to take up smoking," says John quickly. "I…" he starts and sighs heavily, "I talked with Molly."

Sherlock blinks slowly and mouths 'oh'. Then he takes a deep breath and asks cautiously, "How did that go?"

"They were working together, the three of them," answers John grimly. "Would you terribly mind letting me knock out Mycroft's teeth next time we will see him?" he asks with a sigh.

"I would," says Sherlock simply. "Because I want to knock out his teeth too. You will have to wait until he gets them back in. Might be more satisfying for you that way."

"Deal," says John swiftly then he looks at the cart. "Are you sure that we're going to need all of this?" he asks sceptically.

The cart is filled nearly to the brim with clothes. Sherlock was very thorough though. He even got additional pair of shoes for Katie, which she's going to need because on the top of the pile is a solitary blue coat (which will be replacing her fluffy romper).

"Some of this stuff varies in size," answers Sherlock simply. "Now, I would like to direct your attention to the display behind you because while I formed an opinion on the subject it's certainly lacking your input."

Side-by-side pushchair is something they both agree on after taking into account the girls' competitiveness. Then comes the agreement that it should fit through the standard doorway so that narrows the field a bit. When it comes to the actual weight of the pushchair and the weight it's supposed to carry, John favours more lightweight ones with big carrying capacity while Sherlock favours fully equipped ones with lesser carrying capacity. Sherlock's main argument is that the girls aren't going to use the pushchair till they reach school age but he eventually concedes that a pushchair with bigger carrying capacity is a better choice. Then comes the argument about the handle and whatever or not it should have one or two or three, John doesn't mind two handles but Sherlock argues that a single handle is safer and easier to use. Then comes the argument about the colour. John considers the black one practical but Sherlock calls him boring and actually brings up the subject of the car and how much John hates that colour on the car.

They lose at least twenty minutes on the pushchair but eventually pick one in blue. It has a big carrying capacity, a single handle (not adjustable one but the one with adjustable handle is wider and might be problematic in the doorways) and it even turns out to be in stock.

John feels weird about the argument on the pushchair. On one hand he feels happy that Sherlock takes the subject seriously enough to argue his points with fervour and on the other he feels slightly annoyed that they're even arguing at all. But it's refreshing to have his opinions taken into consideration even though he only managed to win one point on the subject. He fears the subject of nursery furniture though.

Luckily when it comes to that he and Sherlock have a pretty similar opinion. Nothing too fancy. Just two simple rectangular cots that can be converted into toddler beds with a changing table and a wardrobe or chest of drawers.

"We will have to paint the nursery," Sherlock announces when they finally find the set they like the best.

"What's wrong with the colour?" asks John. "You like that no wall looks the same in there."

"I also smoked in there," sighs Sherlock. "The walls need a thorough scrubbing and fresh coat of paint. I'm just not sure about the colour."

"If you aren't looking forward to paint it again after they grow up enough to have separate rooms I say go with green," answers John simply. "Or pink," he smirks.

"I'll paint your bedroom pink," snorts Sherlock.

"Then I will paint your orange," quips John. "Purple then."

"I like purple but I don't like it that much," shrugs Sherlock. "What about yellow?"

"If it will be more pastel than solid and bright yellow," sighs John. "I don't want the room to look like a wedding venue and I'm not a fan of weird bird motives."

"Neither am I," says Sherlock. "What about blue?"

"Bear in mind that you most likely won't be arsed to paint it again after getting it back and your mostly dark wood furniture will clash with most shades of blue," John points out.

"Green?" asks Sherlock. "The same or something richer."

"That still isn't helping us to pick the colour of the furniture. Green goes well with white and any shade of wood," says John.

"Won't white get dirty easier?" asks Sherlock pointedly.

"It will be getting dirty anyway," shrugs John. "Remember, two soon to be toddlers."

"Not helping," points out Sherlock. "I'm not exactly the fan of darker wood," he adds after a moment.

"Neither am I," John agrees. "That leaves white or light wood."

They keep at it for a few minutes but finally settle on light oak. Two cots, two changing tables with a chest of drawers, one wardrobe and a child-sized bookcase, Sherlock tries to argue about a second one but John points out that unless they plan to double the books too, they can get by with one for a while. Instead of another bookcase he convinces Sherlock that two storage chests will be more practical.

On their way to the register Sherlock throws into the cart two carriers and when John tries to protest, he tells him that Katie is reaching the weight limit on hers.

The cashier that sums their purchases is very happy with them because they are leaving a lot of money in the store even though they can't settle who is going to pay until Sherlock, the tall git that he is with his monkey arms grabs John's wallet and holds it over his head while he slides his own card towards the cashier with a bright smile.

"You can pay for the furniture when it arrives," he tells John simply.

The road back home is a slow one due to traffic. Katie and Josie are sleeping in their car-seats even though most certainly both are at least wet but they had such an eventful day that it doesn't bother them. They could have changed them at the shop in the bathroom which was specifically designed for that purpose but after calculating that with them being the fourth in the queue to the bathroom and with two sets of twins in front of them they would be able to reach Baker Street faster than their turn to the bathroom.

While the girls are sleeping and John is driving the car at a snail's pace Sherlock, comfortably slouched in the passenger seat, keeps fiddling with his phone.

"Mycroft?" John asks when they stop at the red light.

"No change," sighs Sherlock. "I'm actually considering invoking the higher authority over him."

"The Queen?" asks John curiously.

Sherlock snorts, "Mycroft respects the Queen but he doesn't exactly fear her as much as he fears Mummy. It's a bit childish though, even by my standards."

John doesn't say anything. Running to mother is a bit petty but if it works…

"I will have to tell them about Daisy and Josie," sighs Sherlock. "It's not a conversation I'm looking forward to but…" he shrugs. "A man's got to do what a man's got to do."

"You want company?" offers John.

"When I don't want your company?" asks Sherlock.

"I can think of a few scenarios," shrugs John.

"So can I," replies Sherlock. "You really wouldn't mind?" he asks earnestly.

"Why would I mind?" asks John.

"You had a long day," points out Sherlock.

"As did you," replies John. "Are they going to be home though?" he asks.

"I would receive a text or an email if they wouldn't be," answers Sherlock. "They tend to announce the leaves that extend beyond a night away from home. It's Mummy's attempt to lure me back into Sussex more often. Plus, even if they aren't at home and would be gone for the night I know where to find a spare key. You wouldn't mind spending more than a day down there?" he asks.

"I don't have to come back to London until Tuesday morning and I can always call in sick," shrugs John. "But will your parents will be fine with me and Katie."

"They adore you," Sherlock replies. "They kept buggering me for ages to introduce you. As far as prior to our first Christmas."

"What stopped you from asking?" asks John. "You knew that Harry wasn't exactly serious about her invite."

"The fact that you aren't gay, my desire to continue our acquaintance and Mummy's everything," mutters Sherlock. "Imagine Mrs H welcoming comments but cranked to the max. Mummy has no filter. By the pudding she would be planning our wedding but it wouldn't matter because I would purposely choke myself to death on a turkey bone or brain myself on something within first ten minutes of the visit. No, it was far safer for everyone to introduce you as a married friend."

"Not married now," John points out.

"But you had been," says Sherlock. "Regardless of who Mary ended up being you can hide behind a very evident sign of your heterosexuality and she might leave you in peace if you tell her that I have wrong bits. Even better, present her with Katie first, she adores babies and loses her marbles around them completely. That's one of the reasons why I try to avoid big family gatherings. If you expose her to too many babies at the same time after them, she gets this wistful look on her face…" he shakes his head. "Anyway, she got her wish, just not the way she hoped she will get it," he sighs.

"It is what it is," sighs John.


	7. Chapter 7

_It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn't. ~Barbara Kingsolver_

**Sherlock**

John drives them to Baker Street because the girls need changing and considering the hour they might need a snack if they're planning to make it to Sussex in time for late dinner. They also need to pack and repack because while John has two suitcases of his clothes Sherlock only has what he's wearing.

John helps him change the girls and prepares a snack for them while Sherlock packs his suitcase. They aren't going for longer than a weekend away but with the girls one can never be sure what they would be up to so he packs pretty heavily, avoiding better suits and shirts. He completely forgoes suit jackets in favour of cashmere sweaters because unlike the former they don't require dry cleaning and unlike John's sweaters they actually look good (even though Sherlock very rarely wears them).

While the girls are busy with their snacks (trapped in John's chair that's pushed to Sherlock's chair to keep them from falling out of it) John repacks other bags. When he sees Sherlock come out of the kitchen he throws the car keys at him and tells him to bring his bag there and remove the old car-seat from the boot.

Sherlock makes a quick work from his errand and returns upstairs to pick Katie's travel cot from John's bedroom. Hunting down the bag for it takes him a while and he is almost at the bottom of the stairs when he remembers about her sleeping bag they used as extra padding for the cot as well as a duvet. On his second trip down he checks on John who is repacking the suitcase with Katie's clothes and waves at the suitcase by the door.

"That's mine and done if you're heading downstairs," he says without turning around.

So Sherlock grabs it.

When he returns the suitcase that John was packing is standing by the door while John rummages through the bag Daisy left behind with Josie.

"Did you find anything more?" asks Sherlock.

"Mostly nappies and I'm curious about those two," he answers as he points at the CD/DVD discs they didn't watch before they left the flat. "Do you want to bring…" he points at the laptop.

Sherlock nods and says, "We should check them too."

Then he removes the disc with Daisy's goodbye from the laptop and puts the first unlabelled disk in the drive. The player launches while he's putting the first disk in the cover.

The screen remains blank but something keeps playing so after a moment he unmutes the sound and violin music soars from the speaker.

It's vivacious and completely unfamiliar, to him at least. He looks at John who looks as surprised as Sherlock feels but within seconds John's surprise morphs into a wide grin. From behind his back he can hear happy cooing which indicates that Josie too is familiar with the melody.

"He's a Pirate," says John.

"Who is a pirate?" he asks simply.

"We will amend that at some point," says John simply. "She's good. Playing that solo," he adds with a hint of admiration. "It's an orchestra piece," he clarifies.

The music changes to something he's vaguely familiar with even though placing it takes him some time.

"Beauty and the Beast?" he asks John.

"Watched it?" asks John dryly.

He had but he is not going to admit to that, yet.

"Danced it," he explains. "My secondary school offered a variety of alternatives when it came to physical education. Ballet and ballroom dancing were one of them. My dancing instructor was crazy about this song."

He looks at the timer; there are about twelve hours and about thirty minutes of Daisy playing left.

Just twelve hours and thirty something minutes of his daughter life. That's all he has. Her baby, her note and over twelve hours of her playing. That's all of his daughter he will ever have.

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and he can feel tears welling in his eyes. He shakes his head. There's another disk to check and they really need to get going if they're supposed to reach Sussex at a relatively decent hour. So, he wipes the tears away and removes the disk from the laptop.

He switches disks and hastily scribbles on the one he removed with a sharpie 'Daisy Playing'. While he does that the player launches the third one.

It's a video file. The camera again shows the room and Daisy in it, with her violin in her hands, playing the same melody she played on the other, note for note. But unlike in the other movie in this one Daisy's hair are dark brown, like his, shorter than in the note too, just reaching her chin. She's also has a quite noticeable baby bump, the footage probably comes from about fifth to six month of the pregnancy, more likely the fifth.

He glances at the timer. Three hours of footage. It isn't a lot but it's all he's got. Technically he doesn't have it too, it wasn't put together for his benefit but Josie's but he has Josie so…

That glimpse of Daisy alone is enough to cement in him the certainty that the decision to keep Josie is the right one. If anyone would try to take her from him now… well, they could try but they will have to pry her from his dead, cold arms first and he isn't going to make it an easy task.

You could always make a copies of the disk, you idiot, Mycroft's voice chides him.

Fuck off, he snarls at the suggestion.

"Sherlock?" asks John softly.

"I'm fine," says quickly and he shakes his head. "Is there anything left to do?" he asks, changing the subject.

There isn't much. John finishes packing Josie's bag. He packs the box of Aptamil into it and the baby utensils, the mix of newly purchased ones and a shopping bag of Katie's. He fills the remaining space with nappies from Sherlock's stack. Then he finishes the box by putting the remaining ones in the diaper-bag along with two bottles of formula and both carriers. While he does that Sherlock hounds his laptop bag, he isn't going to work in Sussex but he plans to take his laptop to watch Daisy without interruption (much interruption). He puts the DVDs in the bag too.

Behind him John mutters something about getting a bigger diaper-bag but Sherlock won't try to disillusion him that bigger bags than the current one are duffel bags (and that they already have one that's completely devoted to baby stuff).

Finally, with 221 Baker Street thoroughly locked, both girls strapped in their respective car-seats and the boot filled to the brim John starts the car and they drive off.

John knows where he's going; after all he did drive there. More precisely had been driven there considering that Mary had the car at the time and Sherlock simply bullied Mycroft into sending a car for John rather than leaving him at the mercy of the trains.

At least they live in Crowborough rather than further south, he muses to himself.

John is good and confident driver but not a very big fan of the web of country roads. They didn't have that many occasions to leave London since John learned how to drive but in the few cases they got as long as John was sticking to motorways and main roads he was doing fine until he managed to get lost which was when he always booted Sherlock into the driver's seat.

"There goes a small city car," says John at some point.

Sherlock looks around and notices that it's a very weird statement because there are no small city cars around them. Station wagons and SUVs though, there's a lot of them in front and behind them.

"What about small city cars?" he asks curiously.

"Nothing," answers John. "Except my hopes to downsize this giant cow into something smaller."

"Like what? Like Panda?" he asks, feeling slightly edgy, because surely John isn't thinking about buying a Panda.

"What's wrong with Pandas?" asks John.

"What isn't wrong with Pandas," mutters Sherlock.

"They're going to get extinct because they're lazy about procreating," says John.

"I hope that you aren't planning to buy a Panda," says Sherlock firmly. "Can you imagine me getting out of a Panda?" he asks pointedly.

"What you have against Pandas?" asks John simply.

"To begin with: legs," snorts Sherlock. "For the matter so do the girls. I know that right now and for a longer while they won't be able to reach the floor but…" he shakes his head. "Couldn't you pick something with more style? Like a 500 if we have to talk about small cars," he asks. "I'll still look ridiculous getting out of one but…" he shakes his head again.

"I'm open to suggestions as long as it's a three door version until the girls will go to school," says John.

"Is the idea of child safety locks familiar to you?" asks Sherlock pointedly.

"It is," says John and Sherlock can hear a smile in his voice. "But so is the idea of genetics and I know whose genetics these two have," he adds cheekily.

"Aston Martin then," he mutters.

"Can you afford an Aston Martin?" John asks. "Great cars, stylish too but I'm not spending my savings on something we will only use occasionally."

"I have a trust fund," snorts Sherlock.

"And a child to rise too," says John.

"Bet you that you won't be able to fit the pushchair and a week worth of shopping into the boot of a 500," shrugs Sherlock. "And that's just shopping…"

"Since when we're doing weekly shopping trips?" asks John. "Baker Street is within walking distance of the most shops we use."

"Holidays," offers Sherlock.

"Never seen you on one," John points out.

"Never needed to take one either," he retorts. "It's good to nurture children's curiosity with exposing them to new environments. Have you seen a 500? We will have to consider ourselves lucky if the pushchair alone will fit in the boot."

"I know that you're familiar with the concept of renting a car, I've seen you do it," replies John. "Tell you what, find any car that you like under 50 thousand quid and we will talk about it more."

"Why I have to do all the heavy lifting?" he asks petulantly.

"Because you're the one that cares how you look while you're getting out of one," quips John.

He snorts but with one look behind his back at the girls who're happily babbling at their respective plushies as well as each other he picks up his phone and dives into the rabbit hole of research.

"Low insurance group and low emissions to avoid congestion charges," he mutters, mostly to himself because he knows that's what John would prefer in a car.

"Don't bother with exemption from congestion charges," says John. "I give them a year to three at the most before the only cars that would be exempt from paying it will be electric and I'm not buying an electric car," he adds with a snort.

"Preferences?" he asks.

"Not an Audi," John answers. "Big boot, relatively small and easy to park."

"What does that even mean?" he asks.

"You will figure it out," shrugs John.

He doesn't. The most reasonable thing to do is checking the reviews of the pushchair itself for the ability to fit into boot. It leads him pretty much nowhere.

"I hate to disappoint you but if you want to have a big boot to store in there something more than a pushchair you have to get used to the idea of an estate car," he tells John after few minutes.

"Are you trying hard enough?" asks John, his tone is light and teasing.

"Well, I do know that our pushchair fits into a boot of a unspecified BMW saloon. With one big shopping bag and several smaller ones stacked on top of it," he clarifies.

"Do you want to get out of an estate car?" asks John.

"They have bigger boots, not that I'm planning to ride in one anytime soon," he snorts. "Speaking of which, Aston Martin, great handling but the boot from the outside looks bigger than it actually is, I wouldn't recommend it as a family car," he adds with the straightest face he can muster.

In retrospect, he still doesn't know how to feel about that entire experience. On one hand it was terrifying; especially at the tail end of a high and on the other it was mildly exciting. But maybe all that was exciting about it was the prospect of finally seeing John again.

He turns his head slightly so he can look at John.

John is here, with him and he practically moved to Baker Street even though they will have to do some remodelling to give John… them some privacy.

He didn't think it through, the offer. He was so determined not to have John in a different part of town that he simply jumped the gun and offered Baker Street to John as a home again and now, as long as they only have two bedrooms they will have to share a bedroom.

It's a daunting prospect, sharing a bedroom with John. It happened in the past on handful occasions, at first he found the idea annoying, sharing the very private space with another human being. It was something he hadn't done since he figured out how to scare the living daylight out of his roommate in boarding school (as well as every single one that followed, it had been surprisingly easy). The idea of adapting his routines to another human being sharing the same room was simply outrageous.

But they got through it. Through John's ban on any artificial lights in the room, it mellowed simply to 'could you turn your laptop the other way or reduce it brightness until I will fall asleep'. They adapted to John using the bathroom first because Sherlock had a tendency of using all of the warm water if he was left alone with his thoughts in the shower.

He also learned how to sleep with John in the same room. At first he found John's breathing and soft occasional snores annoying. He also woke to any sounds of distress coming from John's side of the room. He tried to wake him once and never repeated the same mistake after he narrowly missed being punched in the nose. Instead of waking him next time he tried somewhat familiar deviation from the routine he started using on John at Baker Street. But at Baker Street he had his violin and gentle soothing music to ease John back into sleep. He never took his violin with him on cases though so instead of playing he started talking about his paper on tobacco ash in a soft and even voice.

But all of this was before and since then even though for few months John returned to Baker Street they never had a chance to share the same bedroom.

John sharing the bedroom with him, not the bed though, John would insist on keeping his old double bed and will surely say something about the size of Sherlock's king bed and how hard it would be to fit in there. They will also argue about who gets to keep the fireplace (which had been used grand total of three times in the past when the heathers malfunctioned in the middle of winter). It will have to be thoroughly cleaned first.

John should keep it, he decides. He's older, not by much but he will sooner start complaining about draft and cold bones. Though in an ideal world…

In an ideal world his daughter would be alive and he would be a part of her life since birth.

In an ideal world he wouldn't be thinking about putting a wall in the middle of a bedroom he would be sharing with John Watson.

In an ideal world neither Katie nor Josie would be there.

Most probably in an ideal world he would never get a chance to meet John Watson. No, if he would be raising Daisy since birth he would be dealing with Grandma Wellington-Jones on regular basis and she would be fighting him at every turn. He would be obliged to maintain a proper household for a growing child and to keep a steady job. He would have to finish his mastery in order to land one, probably in pharmaceutical company. It would bore him to tears and he would be obliged to pursue a PhD in order to further his competence.

He would never have a reason to loiter in Bart's laboratories. Most probably he would never cross paths with Mike Stamford and without knowing Mike Stamford he would never met John Watson.

Quid pro quo. His daughter for the love of his goddamn life.

'And you call him romantic,' he hears Daisy's voice just there. 'Have you looked into a mirror lately, Dad?' her tone is light and playful and he knows that he's imagining it, imagining her.

He should have seen this coming. That's how it first started with John in his mind palace. One day he wasn't there and the other one he was. It happened pretty early on though.

There are all there. John first and foremost. Mycroft too. Mummy and Daddy, although their voices are the voices of the past. Hudder was there too for a while, the gentle soothing voice that didn't judge his less than stellar choices but gently reminded him to eat and sleep at somewhat regular basis. Greg too, early on when he was struggling with his sobriety he summoned image of Greg telling him that with his talents he was more than capable of finding something worth living for.

John suppressed them all, well, except Mycroft but Mycroft is a manifestation of cold logic. John is Mummy and Daddy and Hudders from the early days, Greg too and above all else he's John.

Who is Daisy?

'Myself,' she answers. 'At least the version of myself you managed to glimpse from our very brief exchange. And what you saw was your flesh and blood, your disdain for Uncle Myc, your musical talent and your determination,' she pauses. 'That means that I'm basically you,' she pauses again and says playfully. 'Does it mean that I get to snog John Watson?'

'Oh, for God's sake,' he almost groans it at loud. 'You have a horrible taste in men.'

'I got it from you, Dad,' she replies.

'Please, go away,' he tells her. 'We can have this conversation later when there's a lesser chance that I will blurt something at loud.'

'I think I'm going to stay,' she says. 'It's rather comfy in here. I don't know what his problem with this car is, it's rather spacious.'

'Wife's car,' he replies. 'Not a fan of the car or the wife.'

She stays quiet for several minutes until she suddenly says, 'You would hate it. This responsible dad pants you would be forced to wear if I was living with you. Most probably you would finish your mastery, even your PhD and get that responsible adult job but you would be bored to tears. You would probably end up doing something stupid. Not recent level of stupid but something stupid for certain. Maybe not drugs, you would be too scared of losing me to use drugs but alcohol or something risky…'

'Your point being?' he asks.

'My point is that deep inside you're a closeted romantic. You might scoff at sentiment and roll your eyes at the use of pet names but you're still your parents' son, a prisoner of your own genetics so to speak. You don't like people in general but you like individual people, not all of them. You do form some sort of relationships with other people. Like with Hudders, you love and respect Mummy but you see her faults too so subconsciously you spent your adult life looking for a less judgemental mother figure until you found one. All she did was nurse you through a bad crash and offer her couch and fridge to you in hard times, an offer you took her on many times before you moved to Baker Street. Yes, she chatters. Yes, sometimes she has no filter but she loves you in her own way. You filled a void, as did she. Then there's Greg and Uncle Myc. You didn't look for it but when it developed you welcomed it all the same.'

'The older brother substitute,' he nods.

'John Watson is something else entirely,' she continues. 'He's Daddy…'

'Stop!'

'… to your Mummy,' she finishes. 'The calm to chaos. Home after a long trip. You can scoff all you want that there's no such a thing as soul mates but on a deeply subconscious level you kept looking for the same kind of connection they have. Someone who took a good look at the best and worst of you and decided that they want to know you better.'

'I blew my chances,' he tells her.

'I don't know,' she says slowly. 'He's here, isn't he? He agreed to come home; he's bringing his daughter with him too. You have a shot at playing happy family together and with some actual work and a little bravery you might swop in there just before some desperate bint will capture his attention. Hot single dads don't stay single for long, you know.'

'Please, stop saying stuff like that,' he sighs.

'I'm you, remember?' she shrugs. 'Which means that I know every single deeply buried fantasy you ever had about him or every military man that managed to turn your head. I particularly like that one with…'

He covers his ears but it doesn't help at all and she's detailing to him his foolish dream about reunion he hoped for but the sudden movement causes John to look at him.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?" he asks in concern.

"Yes," he says quickly. "Got lost in my head. Crazy place to be at the moment," he adds with a sigh.

"Mary or Daisy or both?" asks John.

"Daisy," he mumbles.

"Is it bad?"

"Not until we're touching certain subjects," he admits.

John nods. Like her death, he doesn't say but he thinks it.

"She's my daughter, John," he says softly. "I don't remember her conception or anything about her mother but all I saw of her is…" he pauses, "me. She's me, John," he states with a sigh.

John remains silent for a moment before he says, "Mary, the one you saw me speaking to…" he pauses, "she was me, Sherlock."

"So you understand it," he says.

"I do, I also know a medical term for what we're experiencing," John says slowly. "It's called disassociation. I know that you abhor labels and that your mind works on the level beyond that of an average person but…" he pauses. "It isn't healthy; left untreated it can lead to dissociative identity disorder."

"My mind always worked like that," admits Sherlock softly.

"It's a coping mechanism used to separate oneself from traumatic events," says John. "Very common in children," he pauses. "I'm not sure if you want to bring this up with your parents but I think that…"

You should address it during the visit, Sherlock finishes for him.

"I was planning to," he says. "I'm just not sure when."

"Probably not on the same breath as informing them about Daisy and Josie," suggests John.

"Not good?" he asks.

"It's neither good or bad," says John. "It is what it is."

"The most awkward weekend I ever spent or I'm going to spend with my parents," says Sherlock.

Does it mean that everything that I am is a result of a childhood trauma, he thinks.

"You're more than you experiences, Sherlock," John tells him, as if he knows what he's thinking about. "You're the best man that I ever known. One of the bravest I ever met and I met quite a lot of men who deserve that adjective. You're wise, not just intelligent. You can also be a royal pain in the arse when you want but nobody is perfect. You're also kind, if selective about bestowing that kindness. You're simply more."

"So are you," says Sherlock. "Don't scoff," he adds when he sees John open his mouth. "You aren't perfect but neither am I but we used to be…" he pauses.

He can't say it, not here, not right now and maybe not for a long while.

"We met when we needed to meet. We drove each other nuts but we were good for each other, we made each other better. I don't want to lose that, I never wanted to lose that and I'm sorry that I had to let you believe it that you had," he says finally.

"You don't need to keep apologising for that," says John softly.

"I beg to differ," Sherlock replies. "I should have handled planning stage differently. I should have kept you in the loop. You were a terrible liar…"

"Not really," John interjects. "I'm an excellent liar but the stipulation of excellence in lying is lack of emotional connection to the person I'm telling a lie," he explains. "It's complicated," he adds after a moment.

"What isn't," says Sherlock.

"Them," John musses as he tilts his head towards the backseat. "They aren't even one year old and they already have been through a lot. They still smile though, without an effort."

"They are lacking mental capacity to comprehend this mess," says Sherlock.

"Until proven otherwise I will count it as a blessing," sighs John.

**Mr Holmes**

Solitude wasn't something that Siger William Holmes experienced in great quantity through majority of his long life. As the oldest of fifteen siblings he always had someone by his side, most of the time willingly, at times not very much (because siblings). Then came the army and shortly after that Mal and with Mal came their own children.

Mal, unlike majority of his brothers and sisters was always aware that at times a man needs to retreat and spend some time with just himself to truly appreciate the company of other people. So she didn't complain when he occasionally took a solitary stroll or went on a long run. He always came back to her both tired and energised and when she needed it too he extended the same courtesy to her on regular basis.

That didn't mean that they avoided spending time with each other or that they didn't love doing stuff together. They had but they both took to heart Grandma Sherlock's advice about keeping a healthy balance between together and me time in a relationship. According to her maintaining that balance was a recipe for a loving and long marriage.

There was something in it because all of the grandfathers Siger could remember were reverently devoted to Grandma Sherlock. Not to mention their own marriage (fifty-two years in June and recently passed fifty-fourth anniversary of their first meeting) was a testament of the authenticity of Grandma's words.

Today solitude is not something he enjoys however. Especially with Mal away for the weekend in Edinburgh, attending the wedding of her goddaughter's daughter, a girl she saw only a handful of times but left enough fond memories of herself for the girl to extend an invitation to her. It was a plus one but unlike Mal he still felt uneasy about not saving the weekends surrounding Sherlock's birthday for Sherlock.

It started during Sherlock's gap year. Sherlock was unreachable that year, so badly that even Myc couldn't give them his exact location. It was a big eighteen and due to Mal's contract they were forced to spend that year and the one before that in California. They both worried though and as it turned out, with a good reason because when they finally returned to English soil in early August at the airport they were only greeted by Myc who kept avoiding answering questions about Sherlock until after he forced them to eat a proper dinner. Had Siger been less jetlagged and couple years younger he would have forced the issue immediately, Mal too. But no, quite tasty dinner Myc subjected them to was concluded with Myc's announcement that at the moment Sherlock was in a rehab clinic to which he had been admitted willingly at the beginning of July.

Afterwards between him and Mal they managed to get out of Myc the admission that towards the end of June last year one day Sherlock just vanished from school, with no note left behind or telling anyone where he was going. With some more pressure applied to him Myc also admitted that he managed to find Sherlock few months later in early January (after Sherlock's birthday) completely off his tits. Then Myc admitted that after finding him he put Sherlock in an enforced hospital detox and that after he was released from the hospital he brought him to his home. He also admitted that the moment he took his eyes off Sherlock he had vanished again only to turn up at the beginning of July looking like hell but ready to admit that he needed to get into rehab.

Naturally they tried to visit him as soon as they learned where he was but on Sherlock's doctor recommendation they had to wait another two days before seeing him. They spent them at discussing next course of action. Mal and Myc at some point had latched on the idea that the army would keep Sherlock straight and narrow. Siger, the only military man in the family believed otherwise. He agreed that the army would keep Sherlock busy and would give him a structure but he didn't believe that the entire experience would be anything but sour to Sherlock.

Sherlock always respected the military and that respect followed him into adulthood, although as Siger believed for a completely different reason. He had eyes after all and he knew where teenager Sherlock's eyes strayed when he occasionally happened to find himself in the close vicinity of the base. Being Sherlock he thought that he was clever about it but Siger knew him and therefor he knew better.

Making peace with the thought that Sherlock was most probably gay took a little time, an evening of mulling over it with a glass of whiskey after a hearty dinner. Interested in men instead of women Sherlock was still Sherlock, still his son. But his interest in military men took Siger definitely more time to make peace with. He knew the army, he served with a handful of gay soldiers and over the years he led a couple of them every now and then. He knew enough about their lives to know that being gay in the army wasn't easy and neither was being a significant other of a gay solider.

But as Captain Robert Ferguson, Siger's close friend and for many years a closeted gay man had once put it: the heart wants what it wants, so does the cock. Sherlock wanted a soldier, may God put in his way a handsome army man that would appreciate him and treat him well.

He never shared that observation with Mal. Not out of malice but concern that Mal who figured that Sherlock's interest strayed towards men in general would try to play matchmaker. It had a great potential to end badly for all of the parties involved so Siger kept his mouth shut on the subject for years until nearly six years ago Mycroft announced that Sherlock found himself a flatmate who was a retired army doctor. It was only after dinner and after Myc left when Mal commented that maybe there was something more to it when he dared to admit that Sherlock's eyes tended to linger on an occasional handsome officer over the years. Mal, bless her didn't register the lie of omission and instead busied herself with making plans for when would it be appropriate to invite Sherlock and his 'flatmate' for a weekend.

Sherlock immediately declined the invitation as soon as it was issued as Siger expected him to do. Ever since that hellish year that he spent being subjected to mandatory daily drug tests under Mal's watchful eye Sherlock's natural independent streak had hardened into a firm resolve to never again let the rest of the family control his life.

He suffered through his birthday that year with a very fake smile plastered on his face and after seeing that Siger wasn't surprised that on the same day next year he simply couldn't be found anywhere.

It took them years to establish that Sherlock didn't want to celebrate his birthday with his parents and that he was fine with a phone calls or even better a text wishing him happy birthday. More often than not he did his best to avoid meeting them for the occasion and simply refused invites to Sussex during the month of January. Usually his readymade excuse was that they just seen each other during Christmas break and that he was busy with something.

Sherlock was hardly a dutiful son that visited his parents on every occasion available and he had his quirks. He was not a big fan of crowds so he avoided Siger's and Mal's wedding anniversary party like a sensible person would have avoided the plague. He hardly made it back home on Christmas and hardly for more than one night, two at the most but he did try to set aside a day or two in late December to visit them.

Except this year. This year all they got was a currier with a package containing their gifts and a phone call with Sherlock (initiated by Mal) that this year he was very busy and that most probably he won't show up.

It bothered them but after Sherlock's turbulent university years and radio silence that followed his drop out from mastery program they had been forced to adapt to Sherlock initiating majority of the contact between them and on his terms.

Occasionally, when he was in the mood, he was willing to meet them for dinner on a neutral ground. He called without a specific occasion very rarely, Siger more often than Mal on the matter. It wasn't that he loved her less; Siger knew that he loved them both equally but he knew Sherlock and he knew Mal. Mal had a tendency to overwhelm other people in conversations and when Sherlock called without any occasion he always had a reason to do so even if he hardly admitted it at loud.

More often than not the reason was drugs, at least early on. Siger spent quite a lot of nights and afternoons hanging on the phone and playing battleships or chess with Sherlock while listening to him talk about his research or this or that case. But as important as the things he was saying so were the things he wasn't saying (if not even more important).

_Most probably I won't show up_ meant _I won't definitely show up_. _I'm fine_ translated to _I'm not fine but doing my best to hide it from you. I don't know, I hadn't seen John in a while_ meant _I hadn't seen John in a while and it's killing me._

But the thing about Sherlock and his work or lack of thereof was that it always somehow made it out, at least since Sherlock met John Watson. The blog had been a source of information, not always reliable – vide the Woman thing versus his speculation about Sherlock's preferences several months prior, Mal planned to set the man straight on the subject during Christmas visit – but it was always something.

Except the blog stopped being updated around the time Sherlock got shot and hadn't been updated since even though they knew from John himself that Sherlock was reluctantly allowed to return to very light work, like catching up with paperwork (to Sherlock's dismay and amusement of DI Lestrade) or working on embezzlement cases or stuff that didn't require out of him a lot of physical effort.

As it turned out, Sherlock did have a case over Christmas break that kept him busy for the entire month. Sherlock's accusations against Culverton Smith were relatively quickly followed by information that Sherlock tried to attack him and that John Watson subdued him. Next morning the case was concluded with an information about Smith's arrest the night before.

The information itself was followed by a call from Mycroft that Sherlock would remain at the hospital for next few days and that he was refusing all visitors. Siger knew what it mean without seeing him. Mal on the other hand was appalled by the extent of the damage John Watson inflicted upon their son because she taken the entire list of Sherlock's medical issues as something John Watson personally had done to Sherlock. It took her several minutes to agree with Siger that malnutrition which Sherlock was suffering from wasn't something John Watson could have inflicted on him and that neither his kidney issues could be caused by the man. Yes, some damage to the kidney area could have been inflicted by the man but it was far more likely that Sherlock started to suffer from kidney failure prior to that.

She was still determined to press charges and she was appalled when she learned that Sherlock repeatedly refused to press charges against the man. Naturally she contacted Sherlock and tried to talk some sense into him but it ended as Siger predicted it would end. With both of them in a huff and with Sherlock blacklisting them from visiting him at the hospital.

It was a miracle that he accepted the phone call on his birthday although his tone during his short discussion with Mal indicated that he wasn't going to follow her request to charge John Watson with a physical assault and that he was still pissed off at her for even suggesting it.

During a very short talk with Siger himself while Mal left the room to open the door to the postman Sherlock admitted to him that his issues with John Watson were his issues with John Watson and that if Mal was unwilling to accept that he was an adult and capable of making his choices then well: Happy Birthday, Happy Easter, Have a great anniversary, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, Dad. After that he also admitted that John was coming later to relieve Lestrade.

He sounded hopeful and nervous about it so Siger told him the only thing he could tell him that he wished that it would go well for both of them. Apparently they headed out for a cake, at least that's what Sherlock's text to Siger later in the evening claimed. It had to be good enough to warrant three whole sentences from Sherlock aside from the initial statement.

Since then and with Mal's departure to Scotland looming over him Siger decided to use the weekend to visit Sherlock alone hoping that without Mal to get on his nerves Sherlock would be more open about everything that happened.

Mal eventually left on Thursday afternoon, picked by one of Mycroft drivers to be delivered to the airport. When she was travelling alone, which rarely happened these days she preferred to avoid having Siger drive her to the airport. She wasn't opposed to being picked up by him though even though this time she arranged with Mycroft that the car would pick her back from the airport.

So, on Thursday afternoon Siger was left with an empty house and a list of chores he needed to do before leaving for London to spend as much time with his son as possible.

He handled the issue of food first, preparing Mal's favourite lasagne to refrigerate it in order to keep it for Sunday dinner. Halfway through cooking it, it occurred to him that Sherlock too would like homemade lasagne so he had to switch his plans for Thursday evening a bit to accommodate extended stay in the kitchen. Luckily most of his Thursday plans didn't require out of him to travel outside grounds and those that did could have been handled on Friday morning.

Friday morning therefore got slightly busy for him but he spent forty years in the army and got himself promoted to Colonel on his own merits and not because he looked well in the uniform or there wasn't anyone better to fill that position. No, he was good at what he did and he could handle pressure well.

So during his morning errands he shaved unnecessary small talk and concentrated on things he had to do before leaving. Most of them were deliveries anyway, dropping or picking stuff Mal left for their neighbours or they for them. He done light shopping and usual around the house errands for Mr Allen, their poor neighbour beekeeper who recently broke his leg. He tended to the hives and took his dogs on a long walk, blessing the short talk with John Watson a year prior about the benefits of allergen immunotherapy. The therapy was serving him very well and at this rate in few more months to a year he could surprise Sherlock with an appearance of a dog. Sherlock always liked dogs and could hardly resist the lure of touching one. Maybe if there was one in Sussex then Sherlock would be a more frequent visitor.

After lunch at the local pub, just stew and tea because he was planning to drive today he tended to the garden and did quick vacuuming of the house before his planned visit with Captain Ferguson's older brother who was a resident in a local care home. The visit dragged slightly, started slightly later than usual because the nursing staff got slightly understaffed today and he got there just as Big Fergy was being changed into a fresh nappy.

The visit went well, Fergy was in a good mood and eager to play chess with him. He was even determined enough to have a rematch before dinner although the rematch left them both stumped because they were both competitive cocks who refused to give their ground. So his visit and the game had dragged through the dinner and at half past seven in the evening he was only heading home rather than in the car and driving to London.

Sherlock won't mind, he thinks to himself. Besides getting there late might work in my favour and he won't send me to a hotel for the night.

It might be the only chance to have a proper heart to heart with his son without worrying about Mal getting involved in it because as much as Sherlock loves Mal she tends to irritate him when her attention is directed at him.

The evening is warm, ridiculously so. It's the warmest January he remembers in a long time. The ground is slightly moist but not slick so the drive to London would be an easy one. He just needs to grab a bite and have a big cup of coffee before hitting the road.

With the weather as kind as it is instead of walking around the property he slips through the gateway hidden behind a curtain of ivy. They hardly ever use that gateway in winter but they leave it unlocked during the season just in case.

He loves returning home from his solitary walks through that gate. He generally likes returning home anyway but he always liked looking at the house from the direction of that gate. With the grounds around the gate being slightly lower than the rest of the property the building itself towers slightly over an onlooker and his surroundings. It never looks foreboding though but with the soft glow of inside and outer lights it always looks warm and inviting. Even now when the only lights he can see are the outer lights.

Wait a minute, is the garage light on? It's a motion sensor triggered one and it isn't supposed to be on unless someone triggers it by loitering around the garage door. Who would be loitering around the house?

Mal is definitely gone, safe and quite happy in Edinburgh. He checked with her during lunch and listened to the details of her morning with her goddaughter. Myc hardly ever shows up uninvited and when he does he usually gives them about an hour of a warning prior to his arrival.

The Holmeses rarely visit them with a prior warning and never without one either. His siblings and nephews and nieces occasionally drop by unannounced if they happen to be in the area but never at this time of the year.

Most of his mates from the army are either dead or have families of their own to look after. Those still alive drop by occasionally but they do so with a prior warning.

Most neighbours he keeps contact with already seen him today so they have no reason to visit.

Who would be so brazen to simply get on the grounds when no one was home?

Thieves most probably.

Great, just great and the only thing he has against them is himself while those fuckwits might find his service revolver and his shotgun. That's just what he needs at the moment.

A sensible person would have called the police and risked ridicule if the intruders would turn out to be simple though unexpected guest but he's hardly a sensible man. A sensible man with a family would use the support that British Army offered to gain skills necessary to improve their living situation and wouldn't renew the contract once the old one had ended.

But he wasn't a sensible man and he had various bullet holes in his body to prove that. He was a veteran of Omani Civil War, Gulf War and Bosnian War and he almost got himself sent to Falklands.

So he does what any insensible man would do in his place. He drops on his stomach and slowly starts crawling towards the house while blessing the laxness in mowing the lawn in winter and the good weather.

He keeps crawling carefully until he reaches the edge of Mal's flower garden which at the time of the year consists mostly of sticks and dead or hibernating plants. Once there he can narrow the size of the car to an estate car, dark in colour but he can't see the intruders anywhere near the car.

If only he could see the license plate...

So he sighs and starts crawling around the garden towards the car until he can get a clear look at the plates. Once he has them in sight he pulls out his phone and dials the number of one of his neighbours, a DI in Crowborough's Police, Ted Gibson. Ever since his divorce Gibson likes spending his Friday evenings at work.

"Hi, Ted," he says quickly, trying to be relatively quiet but not alarmed. "Can I ask you to check something for me?"

"Sure," answers Ted. "I'm taking a coffee break anyway. What you need, Sig?"

"Could you check to whom belongs the car with those numbers: SP56LJY? It's a black Audi estate, A3 I think," he asks.

"Give me a moment," Ted replies and he starts tapping the keys on his keyboard. "Black Audi A3. License plate SP56LJY. First registered in 2013 by a Mary Morstan, two changes in the register. First in June 2014 to Mary Watson and recently in December to a John Watson, husband I presume. Do you want me to look him up, Sig?"

"Nah, I know him," Siger answers. "I just didn't know his car. Thanks for that, Ted."

"See you at the usual place then," says Ted.

"Ta," he quips and hangs the phone.

What John Watson is doing here? More importantly what he's doing here without a prior warning.

Deep inside he knows what and why and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

Good God, Sherlock. But it can't be because Myc would reach out with the bad news faster than John Watson.

Then the back door opens and very much alive Sherlock steps out of the house, striding toward the car quickly. At least it seems that it's Sherlock because the man has his coat on and his hair. He's quickly followed out of the house by John Watson.

"I'm not liking it," John comments. "Don't they have neighbourhood watches in the area?"

"They do," Sherlock replies briskly, he sounds like Sherlock. "Her name is Margaret Ratchet, recently hospitalised due to a broken leg. We aren't going to be bothered by concerned villagers and it's a Friday evening. Daddy plays chess with Big Ferguson on Fridays if they're home. He probably got himself caught in a rematch. Relax. So, what we're bringing in first, stuff or…"

"Stuff obviously," replies John. "One doesn't wake sleeping dogs."

"I wouldn't know," shrugs Sherlock. "I loved waking sleeping dogs, that's how I got the best cuddles."

"Of course you would," says John dryly.

Sherlock moves to the boot, opens it as he says, "Stop loitering around, this stuff isn't going to carry itself inside."

"Of course it won't carry itself inside, Your Highness," John quips when Sherlock starts pulling the bags out of the boot. "I spent quite a lot of time as your personal valet so I know."

"Stop whining," retorts Sherlock. "I brought most of it into the car, didn't I?" he asks. "Take it straight upstairs," he instructs when John reaches for the bags.

"I'm not sure…" he starts.

"Well, I am," says Sherlock simply. "If you are so worried about offending Daddy put it down in my bedroom for now and we will distribute it later."

"Yes, sir," quips John and grabs two rolling suitcases and a duffel bag.

"And stop calling me sir," calls Sherlock after him as he grabs the third one, a laptop bag and two weird looking duffels.

"Yes, madam," comes out of the house.

"Just invest in a proper satnav next time," says Sherlock as he follows John inside of the house and closes the door.

Their conversation and their appearance, without a prior warning from Sherlock, is so baffling that it takes Siger a moment to remember that he has no reason to hide from them at all.

So he climbs to his feet and dusts his jacket and trousers before he starts approaching the house. The car lures him though, especially with John's comment about not waking sleeping dogs.

Did they brought John's daughter with them?

Mal and Siger didn't met the girl but they saw photographs of her. One from Sherlock himself and several of the girl with Sherlock from John. Mal kept cooing over every single one of them for ages.

The news of Mary Watson's passing had reached them with a huge delay, huge enough to not make making it to her funeral possible but it gave them enough time to hurriedly order a wreath to be delivered to the cemetery.

Of course they brought her with them, he realises and now he just cannot resist the lure of the car. Besides he's not going to do anything other than taking a quick peek inside the car.

He gets close enough to the car to spot the shape of a car-seat in the backseat and a tiny leg sticking out from under a pink coat that's used as a blanket. Slowly he lowers himself to look at the girl without waking her and then he blinks.

Once. Twice. Trice.

There's another car-seat in there and that one is also occupied by a tiny human being.

He knows that John and Mary had one child. Mal asked Mary about it and Mary confirmed that it was a girl. A solitary baby. Sherlock when he informed them about her birth mentioned one baby Watson, not two. So, from where the other child came from?

Because it's definitely there and by the looks of it its waking up.

Seconds later a plushie hits the window. It would have hit him squarely on the nose too if they weren't separated by the glass. The hit that startles him a little wakes the other child and he finds himself at loss of what he's supposed to do.

Should he wait for Sherlock and John to come out of the house to explain themselves or should he… The child closer to him starts fussing and straining against the harness hard enough to knock the coat on the floor.

He sighs and opens the door before he gently unbuckles the child while putting one of the caps on its head. The child quite willingly subjects itself to being clothed in the coat and doesn't protest when he brings it around the car to rescue the second prisoner from the other car-seat. That one is happy about being released from harness but far less complacent about being clothed and it announces its protest quite loudly straight into his ear which prompts the other which in turn makes Siger place that one on the seat next to the car seat to finish the process.

Once both children are clothed and holding on their respective plushies he picks them both up and finally closes the car door while he tries to adjust his hold on two babies. He and Mal only had one child at a time but one of the youngest of his siblings were twins so he has some experience in balancing double weight at the same time.

Getting inside is not an easy task but it's manageable thanks to the handle on the door. Mal insisted on it even though she didn't mind knobs in the rest of the house. Once inside he takes the turn into red living room where he deposits the children on the couch and starts to remove their outwear.

The clothes that they're wearing underneath their coats and sweaters indicate that both are girls as he expects at least one of them to be. From up close and in better lit room he can tell that they both appear to be in a very similar age and both have curly hair. Although that's where the similarities between them end. The first girl he saw has dark hair and green eyes while the thrower has lighter hair (bordering on dark blonde or light brown) and blue eyes.

Both appear to be enthralled by him and docile enough to allow him to disrobe himself from his outwear just as he hears the footsteps coming down the stairs. The sound is followed by the creak of opened door and soon after by a bellowed out "Sherlock!"

John's scream startles the girls slightly and causes Sherlock to hurry down the stairs but because he's Sherlock and he notices things other people pay little attention to, he registers turned on lights in the living-room and peeks into it just as Siger walks into it from the other side.

"Found them!" shouts Sherlock. "Daddy too!" he adds after a moment. "And he found them so you can lock the car while you're out there," he calls out albeit a little more softly.

Then he turns to Siger properly and says, "So?"

Instead of answering Siger takes a proper look at his son. Sherlock looks awful. He lost weight since Siger last saw him but with malnutrition he kind of expected it. His left eye is bloodshot and he has a stitch at the edge of his left eyebrow. He's also sporting his recovering drug-addict beard.

Siger suddenly feels the urge to throttle John Watson or at the very least properly punch him in the nose.

"Don't," says Sherlock stiffly. "Just don't. Because if you do I'm taking them back to London and you will never see any of them again. Trust me, Dad, you will regret it more than I will and faster too."

Siger opens his mouth to retort but one of the girls decides to call out, "Mama!" and Sherlock, weirdly, goes to her without as much a single breath on the subject that he's not in fact a woman and that therefore he cannot be called 'Mama'.

Siger watches him take the one with darker hair into his arms before he sits down on the couch and checks her nappy. Then, while still holding onto her he checks to contents of the nappy of the other girl and calls out, "I think we need a bottle or something."

Few seconds later John walks into the room with a diaper-bag slung over his shoulder and he quickly drops it by the other girl before he fishes out of it two bottles. He puts the bag on the floor before he scoops the other one and sits down next to Sherlock as he hands him one of the bottles.

He doesn't acknowledge Siger's presence and tells Sherlock, "Try to not give her more than a half. I'm hoping to give them something more solid for proper dinner."

"I saw a lasagne in the fridge," says Sherlock.

John shakes his head and hands the uncapped bottle to the girl he's holding before he says, "Good evening Mr Holmes, we're sorry about that but…" he hangs his voice, "as you can see we're in a bit occupied."

Siger takes a deep breath and counts mentally to ten before he says as evenly as possible, "Not a problem, John. But I was under impression that you only had one daughter."

"I do," John replies simply.

"He does," Sherlock agrees before he takes a deep breath. "This one is mine," he adds softly. "Granddaughter though," he adds after a beat even more softly.

Siger blinks. Did he hear him correctly? Granddaughter. Sherlock's granddaughter. Sherlock who was gay and as far as Siger could tell hadn't been involved with anyone he found worthy of introducing to him and Mal.

He looks at the girl in Sherlock's arms and he can see it now. Sherlock's hair, his eyes, Sherlock's mimicry at that age. The girl is Sherlock's evidently… But a granddaughter?

Wait, if she's Sherlock's granddaughter that means that she's Siger's great-granddaughter and how did this happen.

Suddenly he hears a slightly muffled 'Jesus, Sherlock!' and John Watson appears before him and guides him to the armchair he has been standing by. Even once he's down in the chair John keeps holding on his wrist, checking his pulse.

"You couldn't have been a bit more subtler?" he mutters at Sherlock.

"And how would you deliver that statement with more subtlety?" asks Sherlock simply. "Because I fail to see a safe and subtle opening in there."

Of course he does because there isn't any in there and if there is Siger doesn't know it either.

And Sherlock? How shocked he had to be by the news that he had a child, let alone grandchild?

It has to be a very recent development, one that hadn't been there two days ago. So he either learned that yesterday or today.

And he came straight here to share the news with him and Mal. It couldn't have been an easy decision for him, Siger realises. Not with how strained his relationship with Mal is at the moment. But he came here and he brought her with him, and the Watson contingent as a support and a strong statement: if you want to get to know your great-granddaughter you will have to get over your issues with John Watson.

Clever boy and Mal's son to boot.

He smiles to himself softly at the thought.

"Mr Holmes?" asks John gently. "Are you feeling well?" he asks when Siger attempts to stand up and struggles with it.

"Better than the last time I got shot," Siger admits.

"You got shot?" asks John in concern. "When that happened?"

"The last time?" says Sherlock simply. "Bosnia 1992, friendly fire, he got shot in the arse by some American idiot who I have no idea what he was doing except aiming at his allies."

"Funny," chuckles Siger. "And I still have that bloody t-shirt you got me: I invaded Bosnia and all I've got was a bullet in the arse and this lousy t-shirt," he quotes before he turns to John. "You should have seen him, he was so proud of himself. Mal was furious with him, he destroyed a week worth of potatoes to have stamps for that."

"Still worth it," says Sherlock dryly.

Siger smiles and after a moment sighs, "Explain this to me, son."

"Can I show you?" asks Sherlock tiredly.


	8. Chapter 8

_It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone._

_~Rose Kennedy_

**Sherlock**

"Can I show you?" asks Sherlock, the exhaustion of a hellish day seeping into his voice.

He doesn't want to see it again, not so soon after… after Daisy's prediction became true. After she died without meeting him and left him her daughter to bring up.

She should have been here with him. She should be the one presenting little Josephine to Daddy, he would love the recognition his poor mother got in the form of her little girl. He would love Daisy too.

She would have loved him. She would have been wary of Mummy for a while. Mummy was an overbearing woman but in a well-meaning way, for most of the time and Daisy would have warmed up to her eventually. But Daddy she would love right away. How could she not? He was Daddy. The calm in the eye of the storm, the actual rational man in the family. Given few minutes to get over the initial shock he would be showing her around the house, showing her his birdhouses and making plans on building a cot for Josie.

It's not going to happen now.

He's not going to see Daisy wrapped into one of Mummy's shawls, seated on this very couch with a mug of tea and Daddy's arm wrapped around her shoulders while he shows her photographs of Sherlock and the absurd stuff he had been up to in his childhood.

He won't have that. Daddy won't have that. And Josie will grow up without a mother. These thoughts choke him and he hides his face in Josie's downy hair. He cannot cry now, he needs to be strong for Daddy's sake for a little while longer and then…

"Sherlock?" Daddy asks. "Are you…?" he hangs his voice.

"I'm fine," Sherlock mutters in Josie's hair. "Just exhausted," he adds, hoping that it's the exhaustion Daddy is hearing in his voice and not held back tears.

With his face still hidden in Josie's hair he can hear Daddy and John shuffling around the room. John is most probably looking for the laptop bag which Sherlock left downstairs in the kitchen just in case he was going to need easy access to Daisy's DVDs.

Then he hears Daddy's footsteps getting closer and the warm weight of Katie leaning against his side is changed to Daddy's and quickly Daddy's right arm wounds around his shoulders. No words, just reassuring touch, pure Daddy.

He smiles into Josie's hair softly.

"Just a quick question," says Daddy finally. "What's her name? Is it a she or did you use little Rosamund's clothes because they were on hand?" he asks curiously.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and raises his head, hoping that there aren't any tears in his eyes.

"Her name is Josephine Daisy," he answers as he looks at Daddy. "And no, we didn't use Rosamund's clothes, we used Katherine's," he adds.

There it is the light shock and a hint of smile that gives way to a frown as he looks down at Katie.

"Long story," he clarifies. "Longer than the one you're going to see and we're definitely going to talk about it later on. For now just accept that Rosamund Mary Watson is Katherine Sherlock Watson."

"Sherlock?" Daddy asks curiously. "I thought…"

"He brought up his great-grandmother," says John as he walks into the room with the laptop bag in hand.

"He should have brought her up in the first place," Daddy says simply. "I take that he regaled you with her life story."

"He did," John confirms. "Sounded formidable."

"She was," Daddy agrees. "Put a fear of God in everyone that crossed her. The Holmeses avoided her like a plague. She was the only person aside of the Queen herself that my father-in-law ever feared and that was saying something. She terrified the living daylight out of my father so much that he decided to drink himself to death rather than deal with her wrath on regular basis. I know that it makes her sound awful but she wasn't," he adds the last sentence sheepishly. "She was one of the warmest and kindest people you would ever meet. Stubborn as an entire herd of mules though."

"Sounds like someone I know," says John fondly as he picks the DVD from the bag.

"Is the TV set to the player?" asks Sherlock.

"It is," Daddy confirms. "I had dinner yesterday with Monty Python," he adds sheepishly.

"Let me guess. You were watching the joke thing again?" asks Sherlock pointedly then he looks at John. "He thinks it's funny for some reason."

"It is," answers John simply as he turns the DVD player on.

"Unless you know German," mutters Sherlock. "The only thing worth watching from the entire thing is the parrot one."

"It's a good one too," Daddy nods. "Maybe the joke is an army thing," he suggests.

"What can possibly be funny in a statement that peace broke out and that was the end of the joke?" asks Sherlock. "Although to give it some justice the Nazi cross one in it is a bit funny."

"Because it's literal," quips John.

He keeps fiddling with the TV until; now familiar room shows up on the screen. The video is on pause until John seats himself on Sherlock's right and presses play. Knowing what's coming next, Sherlock stretches out his left hand to grasp Daddy's right hand.

Rather than on Daisy he concentrates on watching Daddy watching Daisy and he registers the sharp intake of breath when Daisy first appears on the screen. It's followed by another one when Daisy says 'Hi Dad'. Daddy closes his eyes and shakes his head when Daisy brings up the kidnapping.

He tries not to hear the words that come after that. Her scorn at Mycroft. It's deserved but he doesn't want to remember her anger or the resigned certainty in the face of her upcoming death because she was right on that. She was already gone when he watched that video.

She should have come to him, damn it, he thinks as the tears well in his eyes. He lets them fall unrestrained now into Josie's downy hair. Then Josie whimpers 'Mama' and another round of tears fall.

"Sh, hush now," he whispers into her hair. "Mama made sure that you will be looked after," he adds so softly that it's barely audible to his own ears. "She loved you so much…"

Finally, 'Goodbye Dad' comes and it brings another round of tears into his eyes.

Goodbye Dad. Goodbye. That's all you will ever have of me, my final words to you and my daughter. My unearned forgiveness for not being present in my life and a choice to do better with Josie.

'You should have come to me,' he tells her ghost that he can feel lingering in the room.

'I know, I'm sorry,' he hears her answer.

"Sherlock," Daddy whispers as he turns to face him, letting go of his hand. "She is…" he doesn't finish the sentence.

"Had been already dead when I watched the video this morning, I'm sorry, Dad," he answers and another round of fresh tears slip out. "I'm so sorry," he mumbles just a moment before Daddy wraps his right arm around his shoulders and shifts him forward. "I'm sorry," he whispers into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Daddy."

He keeps repeating the words through the tears even though he isn't sure what he's apologising for. Daisy's death? There was nothing he could do to prevent that. Not being a better son? Now, that he knows how your child's decisions can hurt he regrets distancing himself from his parents. For allowing the resentment of being sent away to school to fester. For not coming to them when the problems with his left hand didn't go away after that summer they spent going from doctor to doctor. For first illegal pills he took. For morphine. For cocaine. For the year he spent whoring himself on the streets for drugs. For every single overdose that happened after the first one. For worrying about him. For his disappearances and radio silence. For avoiding spending time with them. For not acknowledging that the time they have together is running low and that it had been running low for a very long time.

Daddy is seventy-one now and a retired soldier. Both his parents died before turning forty but Grandma Sherlock lived up until ninety and maybe Daddy has enough of her genes to live just as long. To see him and Mycroft turn grey, to watch Josie grow up. He might even live past Josie's graduation from fifth form. Sixth form even. Maybe even long enough to see her married one day.

He deserves it, Mummy too. They deserve having him make up for all the hurt that he caused them. They deserve being a part of Josie's life, his life. Again.

Josie wiggles out of his lap and he can feel John picking her up. He places her down and then he takes Katie from Daddy's hold.

With both of his arms free Sherlock allows himself to scoot closer to Daddy in order to wrap his arms around him and he lets him do the same. He still keeps mumbling 'I'm sorry' over and over until his voice turns raw and he cannot talk anymore, only cry into Dad's shirt.

Daddy keeps running his hands over his back and keeps whispering softly, "It will be all right Sherlock. Not today, not tomorrow but one day."

He keeps repeating it and other soothing nonsenses until he finally says, "Death of a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent but time heals all wounds."

It's there. The opening he didn't plan for but it's there just the same. An excuse to address his weird dream and to finally settle what's true and what's false in it.

He pulls away slightly, just far enough to look at Daddy while still remaining in the circle of his arms.

"When?" he asks and he sniffs. "When it stops hurting, Dad?"

Daddy looks at him, with his eyes filled with tears and this hesitant expression on his face.

"Because you know that it does," presses Sherlock. "When does it stop?"

"Never," exhales Daddy softly. "It's just the words that people who never been through it tell to people that have been. Time doesn't heal the wounds of neverness, Sherlock. The wounds remain but in time the mind protecting its sanity covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it's never truly gone; it just hurts less as the time goes by."

"Sherrinford?" says Sherlock softly. "Euros?"

Daddy let's go of him with his left arm to press it against his face and wipe his tears before he lowers it to his knees.

"You remember," he says softly.

"Why I had to remember? Why I just didn't know?" asks Sherlock insistently. "Why?"

"You knew," Daddy sighs heavily. "You knew and it was killing you, Sherlock. Day by day, every day for weeks. Every moment you spent conscious you were screaming yourself raw," he pauses. "One day you just stopped altogether. You stopped screaming, stopped talking, even reacting to any kind of stimuli. You shut yourself in your own head and didn't emerge out of there for a very long time. We didn't know what to do. The psychiatrist that that ruddy bastard got for you didn't know either. I know now that he had no experience with children like you but… We were clutching at straws Sherlock."

"So you just let me forget that they ever existed?" asks Sherlock petulantly.

Daddy sighs again and runs a hand over his face before he says quietly, "It seemed like the best course of action at the time. It didn't feel right but…" he shakes his head. "We were stumped; Sherlock and every psychiatrist we asked for help told us to follow your cues. But how can you follow something that just isn't there?" he sighs heavily. "We were unable to get you out of your head. We were so desperate that we even let Myc try some stuff but you ignored him like you ignored all of us. Maybe," he pauses, "maybe if you had an outlet other than speech that would allow you to communicate with us then..."

"What kind of an outlet?" asks Sherlock.

"Art therapy," sighs Daddy. "You've been subjected to it eventually but before it happened you had to get out of the casts which took months and by then…" he shakes his head. "We were told that it will probably pass but it never had. It was already too late to undo the damage without causing more," he sighs again.

"So you adapted," says Sherlock softly. "You erased them from your lives and somehow convinced the rest of the family to never bring them up in my presence. That had to take a lot of effort."

"Rudy helped with the Holmeses," Daddy snorts softly. "I don't know what kind of threats he implored and I don't particularly care. Myc worked on your younger cousins. The Vernets were a completely different case, not all of them were convinced that it was the best course of action. Like Aunt Cora but I wasn't seeing a lot of her prior to that and you weren't seeing her at all after, so she could pray for your enlightenment to her heart's content and all that would come out of it was that she would spend more time on her knees. Lloyd's first wife was like that too but luckily for us she kept bringing up Sherrinford by his nickname and you kept assuming that she was referring to you."

"Why?" John asks before Sherlock has a chance to do so.

"Because that's when you started going by Sherlock," explains Daddy. "More precisely, that's when you started reacting to Sherlock. We kept trying with Billy or any variations of thereof for months until one day we had to give your full name in your presence and…" he pauses. "After months of silence and lack of direct eye contact seeing a flicker of interest from you," he sighs. "We didn't start with Sherlock immediately but it was the only one that could get any reaction out of you so Sherlock you became."

"Why?" asks Sherlock.

Daddy grimaces and sighs, "It's hard to explain without visual aid."

"You have pictures?" Sherlock breaths out, completely letting go of Daddy. "Squirreled away in a bank vault or something?"

"They were, for a while," Daddy admits with a grimace.

"Oh," he breaths out, "the darkest place is under the candlestick," he mutters. "So where are they?"

Instead of answering Daddy stands up and heads to the study.

Sherlock closes his eyes and whispers, "My Baby's First Year photo album. I can feel it."

"Because they didn't think that you would touch it?" asks John pensively.

"Obviously," snorts Sherlock grimly. "I'm going to find the photographs from it sometime this weekend and you can judge for yourself if watching them would be something you would come back to as an adult. I on the other hand would like to be shot again rather than ever seeing that travesty ever again."

"Don't say that because someone might actually take you on that offer," sighs John before he hands Katie to Sherlock and bends down to pick up Josie from the floor.

For a moment he contemplates switching their places but as soon John has Josie in his arms she cuddles up to him and closes her eyes. Well, there goes more concrete dinner John was hoping for, at least with Josie. He leans against the back of the sofa to look at Katie. Her eyes are still open but she keeps rubbing her face and shuffling closer to his side.

"Bed?" he asks.

"Bed," John agrees as he stands up slowly, trying to not jostle Josie too much.

They put the travel cot in Sherlock's old bedroom only because John didn't want to overstep the boundaries of Mummy's and Daddy's hospitality without asking them. He told Sherlock that he was their son and that it was his parents' home but until stated otherwise he was an uninvited guest who shouldn't bossy himself around the house.

So in order to appease John's worries Sherlock removed his own suitcase from the room and put it in the guest bedroom when John wasn't looking. If John was going to be this sensitive about it he could put him where he wanted to put him.

When they enter the room John pays no attention to Sherlock's missing suitcase and makes a quick work of removing daywear from Josie. She's sleepy but not completely asleep so he changes her into pyjamas after checking if she requires changing. She doesn't.

While John is busy with Josie Sherlock changes Katie into a fresh nappy because she's wet (which is probably the reason why she isn't as sleepy as Josie). Once the fresh nappy is on her he puts her in pyjamas and waits for John to arrange the sleeping bag in a way that would cover them both.

Once done with that John holds sleepy Josie up to him so he can kiss her goodnight before he places her down on her back in the cot. Then Sherlock offers Katie to him to kiss and he puts her down next to Josie. John covers them both with Katie's sleeping bag. Josie is out immediately while Katie tries to fight sleep for a couple more minutes but she finally succumbs to the lure of sleep.

"We will probably have to change Josie during the night," sighs John.

"Probably," Sherlock agrees. "Come on."

"Don't you want to…" John starts.

"No," Sherlock interrupts him knowing what he was going to say.

I can't do this alone, he thinks. I need you to later confirm that you heard exactly what I heard and I don't want to hide things from you. Not anymore.

"Okay," says John.

When they return downstairs Daddy is already there waiting for them with a pot of tea and a huge plate of sandwiches. Next to him lies 'Baby's First Year – Sherlock' photo album, just like Sherlock predicted.

Sherlock ignores the plate of sandwiches but accepts a mug of tea. He doctors it to his liking (Daddy was never big on tea ceremony unless they had guests over) and puts it away to cool down a little. On his right John is helping himself to the pile of sandwiches and he places one on the plate next to Sherlock's tea. He looks at John and nods quickly, he will eat one later, right now he cannot stomach one out of anxiety.

What possibly could be hiding in that album?

Sensing Sherlock's anxiety Daddy swallows a bite of his sandwich and puts the plate away before he picks up the album and places it on Sherlock's knees. Then opens the cover.

There's only one photograph on the first page but it's a big one. Not huge enough to fill the entire page of the album but big enough to leave some space over and under it for scribbles that read:

_Billy Sherry Myc_

_Rosie_

He immediately recognises his younger self on the left. He had seen handful solitary photographs of himself from that age. Curly mop of hair, dark brown in colour with auburn hue due to the angle of the light, pirate hat slightly askew on the top of it, with a wooden sword tucked on his side between his belt and his trousers. He's grinning like a fool in the photograph and his right arm is looped around a burlap sack with baby with yellow cap and yellow romper sticking out of it.

"She's supposed to be a bag of gold, isn't she?" asks John.

"She was supposed to be a chest of gold," says Daddy. " Sherlock had her pushchair appropriately decked up but day before that bloody thing decided to break so Sherry hastily put together the bag costume which could be wrapped around her carrier and they dressed her in yellow like they planned."

Sherlock looks at the man and the sight of him nearly takes his breath away. Sherrinford's hair looks exactly like his own. Dark brown with auburn hue and just as curly, fanning around his face. He has a tricorn hat perched on the top of his head and he's dressed into costume of an 18th century naval officer. It's not exactly a historically accurate costume but he doesn't appear to mind. His right arm is wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders and his left is wrapped around Mycroft's.

Sherlock spares a brief glance at Mycroft. He's wearing a grey costume that looks like something a prisoner would wear and his left hand is in handcuffs. He looks less pleased than Sherlock or Sherrinford but he doesn't appear to be completely miserable.

His eyes come back to Sherrinford though because he has seen enough of Mycroft in his life and quite frankly he doesn't want to see him again. Sherrinford has the same straight nose like his own and bright eyes. His jaw is similar to Sherlock's at that age.

"He looks like me," he whispers.

"Yes," Daddy agrees earnestly. "Although if you want to be specific you look like him," he adds. "Mummy used to say that with how alike you two looked you were originally supposed to be twins and that due to your typical contrariness you just decided to be born over thirteen years later."

"That's scientifically impossible," protests Sherlock. "The life expectancy of sperm…"

"I know," chuckles Daddy. "I kept telling her that it was a Vernet thing for ages," he sighs. "Lloyd, the oldest of my younger brothers and Elijah, the second to youngest of them looked like that too even though there was an eleven years age gap between them," he adds for John's benefit. "The older they got the more like twins they looked like."

"Hence it's never twins," John muses at loud.

"What about the names?" asks Sherlock pensively. "Because I get Billy and Mycroft always hated Myc but from where Sherry and Rosie came from?"

"Sherry was named by your mother," answers Daddy. "Our relationship was…"

"If you start going on how hot she was I will scream," Sherlock interrupts him. "Loudly," he adds after a beat.

"Well, she was the hottest girl in the bar," Daddy shrugs. "And she could dance as if she was born to do it and that was before she opened her mouth," he chuckles. "Don't blame me for being completely smitten with her once she had."

"She took one good look at you and told you your life story?" asks John dryly.

"Shut up," mutters Sherlock.

"Not exactly," Daddy snickers. "She asked if the reason why I was nursing my cheapest beer all night was that I was still underage and didn't want to get caught drinking or because I didn't want to spend more money because I was planning to send as much as I could to my grandmother. Turned out that she was eyeing me through better part of the evening. I was seventeen, few weeks shy of turning eighteen and I was hit on by the girl that had it all, the looks, the brain and the moves."

"So you landed in bed and she got pregnant," Sherlock summarizes. "How are you even still breathing?"

"Because she ran away from home as soon as she figured it out and went straight to Grandma Sherlock. You knew Grandma. She and Mummy got along like a house on fire right away. She kept hiding her from the Holmeses until after Sherrinford was born. It was a home birth and his birth certificate was filled on the last day it could have been filled. I just went in there with detailed instructions," answers Daddy.

"Why Sherrinford though?" presses Sherlock.

"Depending on how much liquor you eventually got into her Sherrinford was the Holmes family name. One of the older ones, some sort of great-grandfather or even further than that. Long dead by the time she was born anyway. Alternatively, and that version I was always more inclined to believe, was that she wanted to honour Grandma Sherlock and her husband for taking her in without hesitation by naming him Sherlock Ford. And you know how that worked with you and Grandma Sherlock. Plus, she was never fond of Kenneth which was Ford's first name so she decided to go with this smash of both," explains Daddy. "It eventually appeased both families and everyone was happy about it eventually, except Sherrinford."

"Why?" asks John curiously.

"Poor lad got named Sherrinford Sigerson Holmes Vernet," shrugs Daddy. "He universally hated his names and had very strong negative feelings about being a Holmes. He loved Grandma Sherlock to pieces and spent quite a lot of time complaining that if he had to be a Holmes then he should have a not Holmesian name to go with it. I kept hearing from him: I would be great Sherlock Holmes and you know that, Daddy. Kept getting into fights at school and ignoring teachers until they gave up and started calling him Sherry instead of Sherrinford," he explains with a sigh. "But when you were born and we named you Sherlock he was over the moon, refused to call you anything but Sherlock even though we called you Billy since Grandma opposed the idea. She had to eventually talk him into calling you Billy when it started to confuse you but the effort it took…" he shakes his head. "Well, it was either that or letting you wander around calling yourself Silly so he had to relent eventually."

He hears John chuckle on his right and he can't keep his own lips from twitching. Silly Holmes, that would have gotten problematic in school.

"And Rosie?" he asks.

"When Mummy was about fifth months pregnant with her and we knew that it was going to be a girl she caught the three of you long past your usual bedtime in Sherry's room playing poker," says Daddy. "Never before I saw her so pissed off like back then, she was so mad that I was worried about her blood pressure," he shakes his head. "Told them off for keeping you long past your bedtime and for trying to swindle you out of your pocket money. She was so furious when she noticed that you were playing with pennies. But she calmed down a bit after you told her that you were using them to keep a track of who was winning and that the goal of the game itself was to find out which one of you was going to name your baby sister."

"You didn't have a name of your own by that point?" asks Sherlock curiously. "Or a list of the ones you liked? Isn't that some sort of tradition for expectant parents?"

"We had," chuckles Daddy. "Quite a long list on that and we were still in the process of narrowing it down. It didn't occur to us to ask you about your opinion on the subject, at least not until we would manage to narrow it down to less than twenty names," he sighs. "As it turned out each of you had his own idea how your sister was going to be called and as smart as the three of you were you couldn't narrow it down between yourselves either. Hence poker."

"Did that game factored in her naming?" asks John.

"It had, after Mal calmed down significantly," nods Daddy. "On the stipulation that she gets a right to veto the choice if she won't like it. Sherry and Myc admitted their choices quite eagerly. Myc wanted the baby to be called Victoria and Sherry was hell-bent on Sherlock, told us that Grandma wouldn't rise from the grave to oppose that one and that maybe the third time would be the lucky one."

"It obviously wasn't," says Sherlock simply.

"Because certain someone had wiped the floor with them during officially sanctioned game," chuckles Daddy. "Myc was out by the fifth round and you and Sherry were on warpath."

"Both tried to cheat?" asks John.

"Counted cards. It was an even game until Sherry got overconfident and got fooled by a resigned sigh from him," he clarifies and he gestures at Sherlock. "Sherlock robbed him blind and what was worse was that he refused to give the name he had chosen. The only thing we got out of him until few days before Rosie was born was that it was supposed to be a pirate name."

"Euros was a pirate name?" he asks sceptically.

"According to you Euros literally means the God of East Wind in Greek and in Welsh it means gold which was as pirate as it could get," shrugs Daddy. "What you failed to mention at the time was that Euros in Welsh was typically a male name. But it fit quite nicely with the name Mummy and I settled on. She was named Euros Rosamund, Rosamund after one of Mummy's close friends that died earlier that year in a car crash. But everybody kept calling her Rosie, you tried calling her Euros but after she got very sick you stopped that and decided that once she would be big enough to form her own opinion on the subject she would agree with you that Euros was a better name than a plebeian Rosie."

As Daddy keeps explaining that he turns the page and points at the top photograph on the second page. It's one of Sherlock alone with the baby. He's leaning against the arm of the sofa with a book propped on his legs while his baby sister that's tucked into a soft blue blanket is lying on his stomach.

He looks down at the other two photographs on the page. There's one of Mycroft with the baby, who is awake this time, and propped against Mycroft's right arm as she watches the teddy-bear Mycroft is holding in his other hand with scepticism. Mycroft himself is not looking into camera or at the baby but rather towards his left.

The one at the bottom is that of Sherrinford, Sherry with the baby Eu... Rosie. Euros reminds him too much of the psychopath from his dream. She's just a baby in there and the most devious stuff she could be up to at this age would be soiling her nappy in such manner that it would warrant hosing her down. In the photograph however she's nursing on a bottle while Sherry looks at her with the look of such flooring adoration and devotion that Sherlock's heart squeezes.

"I used to think that we've been blessed," says Daddy softly. "Still do, sometimes," he sighs. "We had three marvellous boys. Every single one of you was phenomenal and unique…" he pauses for a long moment. "But when I go back to that time I try not to think about what came later but of moments like this. There was so much love in that house," he sniffles slightly. "So much love and devotion and adoration, Sherlock. Yes, you argued but what kind of siblings doesn't squabble over big or little stuff. You all universally loved and adored Rosie. Sometimes there were days when Mummy or I could barely hold her for few minutes before either one of you came in to take her away."

Sherlock looks at him and he can see tears running down Daddy's face.

"I'm sorry," he whispers as he wraps his left arm around Daddy's shoulders.

"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock," sighs Daddy. "Their deaths aren't on you. There was nothing you could do to prevent them. Nothing you could do to prevent what happened."

"I'm still sorry," Sherlock sighs.

"Well, I'm sorry that we let you forget about them. We shouldn't have done it," whispers Daddy. "But we lost two children to that fire and for months we've been on the edge of losing the third. There was nothing we wouldn't be willing to do to help you get better."

"The fire. How did it start?" asks Sherlock gently.

"Faulty circuit wire isolation," sighs Daddy. "It was an old house. We tried to keep it in shape but your Uncle Llewellyn, may he rot in hell, refused Mal the access to family funds to fix the wiring. We offered to pay him back in instalments but he flat out refused. So we had to save up for remodelling the electrical installation. We should have moved away as soon as it became evident that we lived on a delayed time bomb but few weeks before that Aunt Gwen's house burned down to the very ground…" he shakes his head.

"And you didn't have this kind of money, neither did the rest of the Vernets," finishes Sherlock.

"Malcolm had something squirreled away but his wife was pregnant again and again with twins and the six of them lived in a tiny two bedroom flat," Daddy mumbles. "I couldn't do that to them. That's why we asked the Holmes for help. Aunt Maple was marrying off her oldest son and she had her expenses. Rudy was Rudy and always walked a fine line between having some cash on him and ending up in jail for debts. Llewellyn was the only one to whom we could turn and who actually had the money."

"But no inclination to share it," snorts Sherlock.

"Instead we had been reminded that we were living in one of the Holmes family properties only because your Grandmother Marged on her deathbed forced him to give Mal one of the family properties for perpetual use," huffs Daddy sourly. "He had a gal to throw the insurance money into our faces after the fire. Mal told him where he could stuff it and I told him what would happen if he will try to contact us again. As if that money could bring them back," he sighs and shakes his head. "Left up to me you would have grown up in a tiny two bedroom flat which the army offered us after Mal and I got married but I didn't want Mal to distance herself from her family…" he shakes his head again.

"It wasn't your fault," Sherlock tells him. "You did your best with what you had, Daddy."

"I could have done better," mutters Daddy. "Or differently," he sighs. "If we took you and Rosie with us. If we stayed at home that weekend. If we gave you and Rosie to the Edwards with Myc…" he shakes his head. "Instead we left you in that house with a nymphomaniac sitter with scruples that didn't want to defile the house. If she didn't have scruples she and her boyfriend would have smelt the smoke right away. If Sherry didn't have a meeting with his thesis advisor that afternoon he would have been home and he too would have smelt the smoke. But he had that meeting and we had to get that stupid bint because he promised that he would be home before dinner."

"Why wasn't he?" asks John gently.

"Got a flat tyre, nasty one," sighs Daddy. "Called the sitter as soon as he knew that he would be running late. When he got there the house was already on fire, he practically rammed into their car and dragged her lover-boy out of it by the collar. Screamed at them that the house was burning down and that he should be calling for fire brigade. Dropped him down within a second and without turning around he ran into the house."

"Why?" asks Sherlock pensively. "If the house was already burning down why would he risk his own life?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Daddy whispers and hides his face in his hands. "How bad we let it go for you to not see it," he mumbles into his hands and he lowers them. "You and Rosie were inside it and there was nothing that would keep him from trying to save you. Which he had."

"At the expense of his own life," mutters Sherlock.

"It was his to give," says Daddy softly. "Sherry loved you all fiercely, Sherlock. Never doubt that. But you…" he pauses. "I only once saw such a deep bond between siblings, with Lloyd and Elijah. Sherry loved Myc but when Myc was born Sherry was only about to turn seven. He loved him dearly and looked after him without being prompted but…" he shrugs. "Myc was always a Holmes, not just in name and blood but also in character while Sherry was…"

"A Vernet?" offers Sherlock.

"More like a Watson," says Daddy and he gives him a quick smile. "He spent his early childhood around Grandma Sherlock. She was the one with whom he spent the most time so it wasn't exactly surprising that she rubbed a lot of her character on him. He spent his formative years being surrounded by my younger siblings and his younger cousins. Babies were babies and Myc as a brother got interesting at the time when he started using full sentences," he smiles again. "But when we had you Sherry was so enthralled by you that for a while we were worrying that he would wind up accidentally knocking up a girl. Luckily for us while he was interested in girls in general he wasn't interested in any in particular. He probably would have been if he didn't devote to you the attention that wasn't devoted to his studies and even that didn't stop him. When Mummy left you in the crib to nap while she was cooking Sherry would usually sneak into your room and take you out of it."

He taps the photograph of young Sherlock with Rosie.

"That's how we used to find you two when you were that small," he adds. "You dozing on him and him reading his books at you, mostly his beloved astronomy books. When you started teething many times during the night I caught him by the telescope with you in his arms. He was insanely devoted to you and you adored him in return. As you grew up you were so in sync with each other that you were finishing each other's sentences. More often than not he was the one to whom you were running for comfort when he was available, he was also the only one that could reason with you when you set your mind on something."

He moves a sheet of paper that's separating the pages. There are three pictures on it. In the top one young Sherlock is held up in Sherry's arms and reaching for an apple on a branch above his head. In the one in the middle they're sitting by the stream or the bank of a river with fishing rods in hands while Sherry is pointing at something that's got to be on the other side of it. The bottom one is of Sherlock seated by Sherry's side with Rosie propped on his left arm and with a bottle in his right hand. Mycroft is hovering over his left shoulder.

"He was your hero and a role model. Myc's too, albeit in a more restrained manner. He cultivated in you the thirst for knowledge and love for riddles. You used to come with the most complicated ones for him to crack and he did the same for you," Daddy continues.

"Who came with the one that started with 'I that am lost, oh who will find me?'" asks Sherlock slowly.

Daddy frowns and scratches his chin, "I think that it was you but that…" he pauses and licks his lips. "It's not something that I heard that year," he sighs. "No, it was earlier. It had to be the year which Sherry lived on campus, you started signing it a few weeks after your birthday whenever Sherry was visiting and stopped shortly before Easter break."

"Why did I stop?" he asks pensively.

"No idea, you just did," sighs Daddy and then frowns.

"What?" presses Sherlock. "You're remembering something."

"Probably nothing helpful," Daddy grimaces. "After Christmas break one of my subordinates came to stay with us for a while. He was using Sherry's room because it was unoccupied for most of the time and Sherry didn't mind sleeping on a rollaway in your room. In fact you strongly argued for having him there. He was going through a very nasty divorce and only needed a room for few weeks because there were high odds that we both would be sent to Falklands but you know how that worked out. You used to call him Captain Nemo because his name was Nicodemus. He left before Easter break in great hurry, claimed later that he got distressing news from his grandmother and that he was resigning from the army as soon as his contract was out…"

_Nemo._

_Nemo Holmes._

'I had no-one,' Dream Euros's quiet voice with a hint of anger rings in his ears.

"I had no-one," he whispers after her.

"Sherlock?" John and Daddy whisper over each other.

_No one will believe you._

_If you tell Mummy or Daddy something bad would happen to them._

_Come here and I will read to you, Billy._

_Be a good boy and sit in my lap._

Oh God.

_I … am … lost … help … me … brother … save … my … life … before … my … doom. I … am … lost … without … your … love … save … my … soul … seek … my … room._

Daddy was at work. Mycroft at school. Mummy went shopping. He was in bed suffering from a nasty cold otherwise he would be at school or would have went out with Mummy. As it was he was counting hours until Sherry's arrival because when Sherry was there then he was safe with him. But he wasn't safe back then because he was alone in the house with Nicodemus and he was praying for the man to not come in there.

But he had and he pulled him into his lap like he usually did when he had the chance and started rutting against him. Except this time he didn't have a chance to finish what he started because a pair of strong arms suddenly yanked him out of Nicodemus's grasp and someone was pulling him behind their back.

Sherry. With a bread knife in hand and the fury practically radiating from him. Hissing words at Nicodemus that he couldn't exactly make out.

"I am lost. Help me brother. Save my life before my doom. I am lost without your love. Save me soul, seek my room," he whispers.

He feels Daddy stiffening beside him and then he collapses forwards with his head in his hands and a chocked sob tears out from his throat. That's what completely brings him to the present.

"Daddy?" he whispers as shifts the album into John's lap and tries to pull Daddy upright.

He feels worried. Daddy is seventy-one and in relatively good health but he had enough shocks for one day. Why he had to open his mouth and utter these words.

"Oh, Sherlock," Daddy whispers between sob. "God, how we failed you."

"You didn't fail me," Sherlock objects.

"I let that man into our house," Daddy chokes out.

"Well, Sherry got him out and I made it out without lasting physical damage," he says quickly. "He was probably too scared to try something more physical than rutting."

"He shouldn't have a chance to even do that," Daddy objects. "You know it, Sherlock. How could we not see this happening?" he mumbles.

"Because I didn't let you see this," says Sherlock calmly. "Because he threatened me that something bad will happen to you and Mummy if I told you. His own downfall was not forbidding me from telling Sherry even though I was too mortified to say it outright. I was fine, I'm fine. He didn't break me, Daddy. Sherry saved me."

Again.

"Please tell me more about Sherry," he tries to distract Daddy from thinking about how much he had failed him even though there was nothing he could have done except catching Nicodemus in the act and the man was very careful about it. "What did he study? Did he play an instrument? If he did, what did he play? What school he went to? Did he have friends?"

He keeps asking. He asks about languages Sherry knew. What was his favourite colour, his favourite dish, his favourite holiday.

Daddy finally calms down enough for Sherlock to push a freshly made mug of tea into his hands just as John presents him with another mug.

"Astrology and astrophysics," says Daddy over the rim of his mug. "He also used to be quite fond of geology, it was something you used to share. He had pretty strong grasp on chemistry but it wasn't something he was particularly interested beyond his own field of studies. One of your favourite very lousy weather activities was tinkering with his chemistry set when he was reading," he adds pensively. "Mal used to beg him to keep it age appropriate for you and he kept answering that if he kept it age appropriate you would burn the house down out of boredom," he grimaces at the comment.

"I probably would," Sherlock agrees.

"Sherlock," Daddy sighs. "We need to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about on the subject," sighs Sherlock. "It happened. I was mortified when it was happening but Sherry stopped it from happening. For God's sake I didn't even remember it for better part of my life," he adds quickly. "I had no control over what was happening and neither did you or Mummy. If he was like majority of opportunistic paedophiles I got to meet over the years he played the role model citizen very well. He was younger, charismatic and played on your sympathy. That's what people like him do, Daddy."

"But it does explain your control issue," says John pensively. "All of them."

"We're not talking about that either," mutters Sherlock. "It's in the past, it will stay in the past, John. Yes, we will talk about it in therapy but for now please, let's change the subject."

"From where you were getting the money?" asks Daddy quietly. "That year you were…"

Sherlock sighs. There's no getting out of it. Over the years when asked about it he kept lying that he had some money saved when he disappeared and that after he ran out of what he had he got enough from begging on the streets.

Daddy might not be as perceptive as he is but he has an annoying tendency of getting more insightful as the discussion goes and his confidence grows. Right now his confidence might be in tatters but the insight holds true. If Mummy was around Sherlock could use her as a distraction as it is…

Maybe it's for the better, he admits to himself. Airing all of it. No more secrets and skeletons hiding in the closets.

"I used to accept money or drugs in exchange for sexual favours," he states calmly.

He doesn't hear it but he can practically feel John mouthing 'Jesus, Sherlock'.

"And I wasn't picky about quality of clientele or whatever or not they used protection," he adds.

Daddy sighs heavily.

"For the record I remained disgustingly lucky and didn't even get herpes let alone HIV," he clarifies. "Can we agree that we're even on the subject of questionable choices that affect the whole family even though at the time it didn't occur to us to even consider that something could be wrong about making them?" he asks pointedly.

"I guess we can shelve that discussion to a later date for now," says Daddy after a few moments. "Speaking of questionable life choices, how are you two now?" he asks pointedly. "Because you know Mummy."

"Well, if Mummy wants to see her great-granddaughter on regular basis in person and not in photographs then she will have to accept that I'm thirty-bloody-nine years old and more than capable of making decisions that affect me life," Sherlock shrugs. "John and Katie will be living with us at Baker Street, we just need to remodel it a bit to make it more suitable for two single fathers," he adds as he looks at John.

John as expected looks mortified with shame.

"Relax," he tells him. "Mummy will threaten you with suing you for physical assault but she won't follow through with it."

"She should have," mutters John. "You should have."

"We already had this discussion," says Sherlock. "She's my mother but I'm not going to let her dictate how I'm supposed to live my life and with whom I should be friends. I'm thirty-nine, not nine," he huffs.

"Too right," Daddy agrees. "He used all of his patience with Mal dictating every hour of his day during the year we spent living together after he first got out of rehab. Hated every minute of it."

"Well, it gave me some wiggle room after my therapist admitted to her that it would be beneficial to my continued sobriety if she stopped making a chore out of it," shrugs Sherlock.

"She worries," sighs Daddy.

"So does John but the only time he insisted on drug-testing me was after he caught me working undercover in a drug den," retorts Sherlock. "Although if that will give you peace of mind…"

"No, I trust you," replies John. "You won't do this again but if it happens we will get through it. Together," he adds gently.

He cannot stop the warmth that spreads through him after that statement. Mary put them through hell but they emerged on the other side a bit bruised physically and emotionally but it seems that now they're stronger than ever.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"So who was the biggest troublemaker out of all of them?" asks John curiously.

"Not Mycroft," Sherlock chimes in.

"He's right," chuckles Daddy. "Myc was always the little diplomat and an unproblematic child. Which explains why he's making up for it as an adult with stuff like that," he snorts as he points at the TV screen. "But it's hard to point out an evident winner because a lot of stuff Sherlock had been up to was either inspired or consulted with Sherry as it usually turned out later. Although with one of the biggest offenses he came on his own."

"Please, not the wedding dress again," mumbles Sherlock. "I kept hearing about it for ages."

"Sherlock, along with the rest of the kids in the neighbourhood, got invited to a birthday party of some girl Mycroft liked. But because it was a joint party with her younger step-sister it was agreed that the theme would be costumes," says Daddy and Sherlock groans inwardly. "As one can predict with a lot of prepubescent children running around the costumes wouldn't be gore. Just cowboys, policemen, knights, pirates, fairies and princesses with some young wannabe doctors, soldiers, secret agents. Generally nothing scary or gore."

"He means boring," Sherlock chips in.

"It was in the summer. Mal headed to her sister for the weekend. I was at work but Sherry stayed at home. Myc headed over earlier to help set up the party. Sherry was busy with Rosie because we were trying new kinds of food on her and something in her lunch didn't agree with her. So she was a bit sick, cranky and miserable. This was why Sherry didn't really pay attention to Sherlock. They mostly shouted at each other whatever Sherlock was ready or not and that he was heading over when he was ready," Daddy continues.

"Which explains why I filled that memory with some lousy sitter," mutters Sherlock.

"Sherry expected Sherlock to dress up as a pirate so he really didn't pay attention to him which was why Sherlock left the house dressed in Mal's wedding dress," says Daddy. "It was an elaborate lace and tulle thing, a wedding gift from her mother who decided that if her daughter really wanted to marry a penniless soldier then at least she should marry him in a proper wedding dress. She looked marvellous in it," he smiles fondly.

"And Sherlock?" says John with a chuckle.

"I owned that dress," snorts Sherlock.

"Yeah, you did," Daddy snickers. "About an hour and half into the party I get a phone call from the girls' parents asking me to come and pick up my sons. So I threw everything that I was doing, drove back home like a maniac, nearly fell into a ditch by the entrance to their house and the very first thing I see is Mrs Nolan standing on the front step and she's pointing at the opposite ends of the front garden. I look right and see Myc under by the apple tree, he's sporting a bloody nose and a split lip but he looks livid and keeps glaring at the opposite side of the garden where Sherlock is feasting on black currants straight from the bush. He's dressed in Mal's wedding dress, completed with the veil and he looks as if he rolled himself in a pile of hay, sat down in a mud puddle, ran through cow poo and fell into horse shit…"

"Oh God," John chuckles.

"Wait for it," quips Daddy. "Then he turns to me and never mind the currant juice on the dress but his face…" he chuckles and shakes his head. "He helped himself to Mal's lipstick and eye shadow. Most of his face is dusted with green and what isn't green is covered in the red lipstick. He looks at me and goes: 'Hi Dad! They're kicking us out of the costume party because my zombie bride was too good.' And just like that he climbs into the car."

"Then he asks what happened to Mycroft so I tell him that Mycroft tried to drag me out of the party so I chinned him," adds Sherlock. "It escalated from there and we were both kicked out. And Mycroft never forgave me for cock blocking him."

"Well, it's not nice when it happens to you. I know that probably better than Mycroft," snorts John. "Never mind chasing away few actually lousy dates…"

"That were apparently not lousy enough for a shag," Sherlock quips.

"I had needs," John mutters.

"And low standards and self-esteem," adds Sherlock. "You would hit on a woman twenty years your senior if she appeared interested in you. I was doing you a favour."

And myself as well, he doesn't say. I couldn't stand the idea that they held your attention and I didn't.

"And you didn't think about moving away?" asks Daddy curiously.

"Several times in the heat of the argument about it," Johns sighs.

"And now you're moving back in with your daughter?" Daddy keeps prodding. "Knowing that he will probably scare off any potential suitors?"

"Well, he can keep scaring them off to his heart's content because this time I'm actually going to listen," answers John grimly. "Not that I'm actively planning to ever date again," he snorts.

"Every widower says that," muses Daddy. "But after a while men get lonely. It's nothing to be ashamed off."

Sherlock looks at John who's looking at him expectantly. Apparently there's another they need to discuss with Daddy and neither of them fancy explaining what role Mary played in this mess.

Sherlock nods slowly and John sighs and clears his throat.


	9. Chapter 9

_Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen. _

_~Winston Churchill_

**John**

Sherlock nods slowly and John sighs and clears his throat. He opens his mouth but no words come out.

Where should he start? With the death of Sebastian Moran or with Mary shooting Sherlock? Or maybe Mary shooting Daisy. Should he get into the details about their marriage or should he keep his mouth shut.

He has to decide on something and quite fast. He's used to Sherlock staring at him expectantly but Mr Holmes deserves knowing why he will never meet his granddaughter.

Sherlock leans towards his father and says something that makes Mr Holmes nod slowly. Then the older man picks up his mug of tea and moves to the armchair by the TV. He leans forward to place the mug back on the coffee table and straightens his back.

"Out with it Captain Watson," he says briskly.

"Sir?" asks John sceptically.

"That would be Colonel Holmes for you lad," says Mr Holmes simply. "Now start at the beginning."

He cannot stop the feeling of calmness that immediately washes over him. Of course Sherlock knows which buttons he should push for John to get himself together. The doctor or the solider. Curious why he never mentioned that Mr Holmes served in the army.

"Colonel," says John and he barely resists the need to stand up but can't resist the need to salute.

"Now tell me why a mention about your late wife has you wound up in knots tighter than a hammock," says Mr Holmes. "Because it isn't a matter of grief alone as far as I can see."

"I'm not grieving her, sir," answers John. "I'm not doing it now and I wasn't exactly grieving her after her death."

Mr Holmes raises both eyebrows questioningly as his eyes flicker from John to Sherlock and then back to John again.

"She was a mercenary, a heartless, cold-blooded criminal that made a living out of killing innocent people," he answers swiftly. "She was a professional assassin with a private vendetta against my person and in an attempt to execute it she nearly killed your son and actually killed your granddaughter. Had your granddaughter been a worse shot than she was Mary most probably would have tried to kill your son again and most probably she would kill your great-granddaughter, my daughter and in the end myself."

And let's not forget that she was also an abusive wife that kept gaslighting you until you felt like a worthless piece of shit.

"Can we stop for a moment?" asks Mr Holmes calmly. "Sherlock, for the love of God why…"

Why you didn't have her arrested after she shot you? Why you forgave her? Why you invited her into our house and expected her to sit with us at the very same table? Why you grieved her death? Just why?

It's easy for John to finish this question.

"We already talked about making questionable choices," says Sherlock petulantly.

"Yes, we talked about making questionable choices that affect the whole family even though at the time it didn't occur to us to even consider that something could be wrong about making them," agrees Mr Holmes. "In what world allowing her to walk away freely after she nearly killed you was a good choice?"

"John and Mary had a baby on the way," answers Sherlock swiftly.

"And pregnant women go to prisons and give birth to their children there all the time," Mr Holmes retorts. "John," he adds as he looks at John, "what were your initial feelings on the subject?"

"She shot Sherlock," answers John simply. "She knew what losing him had done to me. She met me while I was grieving and she did her best to put me back together. She knew what losing him again, and for real this time, would do to me and she still pulled the trigger," he spits angrily.

"You went back to her," Mr Holmes points out.

"Because I allowed myself to be convinced to come back to her. Because we had a baby on the way and because Sherlock was pushing me to forgive her," answers John. "How could I oppose that idiot," he points at Sherlock, "when he tore his stitches and gave himself a bloody heart-attack at the age of sodding thirty-seven, a week after he nearly died because he tried to convince me that trusting and forgiving her was the right thing to do because she was caught up in a case he was working on?"

"The same way Mal and I stopped him from running away and joining circus when for a brief while he wanted to become a contortionist," replies Mr Holmes. "Gently but firmly. Given the factor of the case he would have sulked for a month or more but eventually he would have to get over it," he adds before he looks at Sherlock expectantly. "Why?" he asks.

"Why do you keep following Mummy and whatever idiocy that catches her attention?" asks Sherlock. "Her yoga phase? Her knitting group? For the love of God you taught yourself how to knit even though you hated it because you could never get it right."

"It's not the same thing," Mr Holmes shakes his head.

"It is," Sherlock practically spits out.

Mr Holmes's eyes widen and his left hand flies to his mouth. Sherlock grimaces and folds his arms over his chest.

John feels as if he lost the thread of where this conversation is supposed to go.

"Also, shut up," Sherlock mutters a moment. "Both of you. I can hear you thinking and it's bloody annoying."

"It's bloody stupid, that's what it is," snorts Mr Holmes.

"Thank you," snorts Sherlock.

"No, Sherlock, it really is stupid," sighs Mr Holmes. "Between yourselves you have a nearly mastery in Chemistry that could have been pursued into PhD. A degree in cryptology, again if it was pursued. A medical degree and career in the army that was recognised enough to get a position of a Captain. In RAMC, I presume. Yet, I feel as if I'm sitting in front of two biggest idiots on the planet earth and completely blind ones on that."

"Shut up before I will bring up crocheting," hisses Sherlock. "He used to make doilies," he tells John.

"Everybody needs a hobby," John tells him.

"And yours included following my wayward youngest son all over London," Mr Holmes snorts. "Or was it the girlfriends?" he asks.

"Shut it," mutters Sherlock before John has a chance to say anything.

"Can you please both stop arguing?" he asks.

"I'm not arguing," objects Sherlock firmly. "Daddy is being delusional."

"Well, if I'm delusional and you aren't then I'm worried about how good you're at your job," Mr Holmes snorts.

"Can we please change the subject?" snorts Sherlock.

"In a moment," Mr Holmes says. "John, what are your intentions towards my son?"

"That's it," says Sherlock as he stands up. "We're leaving."

"Sit down, you plonker, we just got here," sighs John as he yanks him down by the shirt and Sherlock flops down on the couch. "We both had a very long day, it's late, the girls are sleeping and I'm not driving back to London in the dark because with my talent we will wind up in Cornwall if we're lucky and in Scotland if we aren't," he adds with exhausted exasperation. "Also, Mycroft," he adds as an afterthought.

"Mycroft can't hide from me forever," mutters Sherlock as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Speaking of which I wish to register a complaint. Your middle son is up to his ears in this whole mess as you already noticed. Not only he's somehow responsible for keeping Daisy away from me but he's also responsible for allowing Mary to fake her death which resulted in Daisy's death. I wish to at least punch him in the face."

"Get in line," mutters Mr Holmes. "I'm your father, I'm older, he's my son and therefore I'm going there first," he adds grimly. "Then I'm going to turn him over to Mummy and once she's done you can do with him whatever you please. The offences you listed aren't the only thing he has been guilty of."

"What exactly he had done?" asks Sherlock curiously.

"Gap year," says Mr Holmes sourly. "Oh, you know Sherlock, the last I heard about him he was passing through a border between India and Burma. Travelling the world, my arse," he snorts. "A year of he's fine while you had been kidnapped."

"I didn't stay kidnapped long," says Sherlock simply. "And I most certainly don't remember being kidnapped. What I do have is memories of the beginning of the summer and a huge blank between that and finding myself on the streets."

"Then there's that," mutters Mr Holmes.

"That isn't exactly his fault," shrugs Sherlock. "Choices, remember?" he adds pointedly. "He didn't push me into drugs, Dad. No, it was something I did to myself and I started long before that."

Mr Holmes frowns and asks softly, "When?"

"Do you remember that thing with my left hand?" asks Sherlock quietly. "I didn't start that year," he adds quickly. "Not with heavy stuff but I did start with stuff that I could get without prescription. Small doses at first, then bigger. Then I went to some doctor in the area, one that I knew that was keen on keeping people medicated. I started with the mild ones but I graduated to heavier stuff to finally end on morphine. Then along came cocaine and during that year I think that I've sampled almost everything that could have been sampled."

Mr Holmes sighs heavily.

"Clean slate?" offers Sherlock.

"I don't think…" Mr Holmes starts.

"Clean slate?" Sherlock presses insistently.

Mr Holmes rubs his chin and sighs, "Clean slate."

"Right on time too," sighs Sherlock as he stands up. "Josie needs changing. I should get there before she will wake up Katie. Stay," he adds as he walks out of the room and heads upstairs.

"I don't remember him having a nearly bat-like hearing," mutters John because he definitely didn't hear a peep coming from upstairs and he's used to hearing Katie's mewls.

"Sensory overload," explains Mr Holmes.

"Asperger Syndrome?" asks John pensively.

"He can give you that impression but no," Mr Holmes shakes his head. "Per Rudy's request we had all three of them evaluated and Sherlock was the only one who ticked only several boxes during the first evaluation. If there's one thing I learned about children for certain is that they like mimic the behaviours of people that surround them. Mal has a mild Asperger Syndrome, it was never officially diagnosed because the Holmeses preferred to not know whatever or not their daughter was simply a peculiar child or mentally handicapped one. You have to remember that she was born in 1946 and that the Holmeses were an upper class family. They were unwilling to risk the potential stigma that such a diagnosis carried back then. I was a soldier and I was gone a lot, so the boys grew up with Mal."

"And because children mimic the behaviour of their role models they all started to mimic your wife's behaviour," nods John.

"The only one that had a milder form of Asperger Syndrome than Mal's was Sherrinford. Mycroft used tether on the brink of being diagnosed with Asperger until he figured out the reason why that test continued to pop up during the evaluations of his mental capabilities. And Sherlock from before fire didn't even come close to that level," explains Mr Holmes.

"And after?" asks John.

"Ticked enough boxes to be diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome," sighs Mr Holmes. "I'm not a psychiatrist John, I'm a retired soldier and my specialty was management and administration and whipping crows into shape. But even I knew that Sherlock's Asperger was PTSD masquerading as Asperger."

"Because one doesn't get worse on the tests after being better," nods John.

"Not only that," admits Mr Holmes. "Because the behaviour that Sherlock was presenting wasn't Sherlock at all."

"If not him then who?" asks John. "Sherrinford?" he guesses the answer to his question.

"Mind you, he retained enough of his own character to not become lingering ghost of Sherrinford but…" he shakes his head. "We shouldn't have sent him away to secondary school," he sighs. "It was suggested to us that amongst his peers he might learn how to fit in but he never had. We should have known better after Sherry but it worked well for Mycroft and we thought that it would work on Sherlock too."

"There's no stopping that is there?" asks John quietly. "Beating yourself over the choices you made?"

"Do you?" asks Mr Holmes simply. "About what happened recently?"

"Amongst the other things," John admits grimly. "He had a psychotic episode and I felt that I was witnessing a repeat of Magnussen and I couldn't allow it to happen again," he pauses. "He was high and instead of dragging him back home by the collar I allowed him to drag me out there, working that case. I let him shot up in a bathroom even though at any given point of time in the past I would have marched in there, flushed the drugs down the toilet and sat on him until the high would wear off. So I subdued him and I tried to get him to snap out of it but…" he hangs his voice and wrings his hands.

"The moment you hit him once you just couldn't stop hitting," says Mr Holmes quietly.

"Yes," whispers John and puts his face in his hands. "Kicked him too, a lot," he mumbles into his hands. "And I wouldn't stop, not until I had to be physically dragged away from him, by two men. I would have killed him, he was already dying because of the drugs and I nearly killed him," he chocks out.

I loved him and after swearing to myself that I will never become my father, that I would never lie my hand in anger on someone I love I nearly bloody killed the only person I loved with all my heart with the exception of my daughter.

"Father or mother or both?" asks Mr Holmes quietly.

"What?" mumbles John as he lowers his hands and raises his head slightly to look at the older man.

Mr Holmes has this familiar distant look in his eyes. His hands are stapled underneath his chin, just like Sherlock does when he's thinking.

"Which one of them was the abusive one?" asks Mr Holmes.

"Father," John admits softly.

"What about Mary?" asks Mr Holmes as his gaze focuses on John.

John sits up straight and blinks and whispers, "How…"

"In about eight to nine out of ten cases victims of domestic abuse tend to repeat the circle of abuse," answers Mr Holmes. "Most often because they don't know any better. But you did know better, John. You knew better and yet you gave in," he adds thoughtfully. "The question is, why?" he asks. "It's highly possible that there are unresolved issues between you and Sherlock and knowing Sherlock there have to be some but…" he pauses. "It doesn't feel right, not with Mary being who she was. I cannot imagine someone like her not trying to punish you for your perceived misdeeds prior to executing her final revenge," he concludes.

"It was never physical," John finally admits. "And it started small, during the time when my head wasn't screwed exactly right. She was nice, in overall and funny in this sarcastic sort of way. It reminded me of Sherlock," he says and pauses. "She was patient with me, exceptionally so. That's why at first I didn't notice how manipulative she was. I trusted her, I loved her or the image she was presenting at the very least," he shakes his head. "After Sherlock revealed her for who she was… I started noticing that something wasn't exactly right but we just had Rosie and I blamed it on exhaustion. I was working full time, then chasing Sherlock on cases and coming back home to a fussy baby and an assassin wife that spent her days taking care of our daughter… I blamed it on hormones, on exhaustion, on a budding resentment that in spite of coming back home I still couldn't bring myself to completely forgive her. I got into an emotional affair with a woman I met on a bus… Nothing serious ever happened but for a moment I felt as if I had some control over my life."

He pauses and licks his lips.

"I was planning to tell her about the affair," he continues. "I was planning to tell her that I wanted a divorce and I wanted to sue for a full custody."

"But you never had a chance," says Mr Holmes.

"She was dead and in her dying words she glorified me," snorts John. "She was dying and all that I felt was relief. What sort of a monster did it make me?" he asks. "She was dying and all I could think of was that now I could come back home with Rosie."

"Where?" asks Mr Holmes.

"Where home had been since a certain idiot asked if he can borrow a phone," sighs John. "The same domesticity that was stifling me with Mary with Sherlock was effortless. Funny at times even," he smiles at the memory of Sherlock's horror when Katie shat herself so badly that she got poo into her hair. "It never felt like a chore with Sherlock."

"Of course it didn't," says Mr Holmes simply. "It explains a lot," he muses. "All right, I will get between you and Mal if it will come down to that."

"Why?" asks John in surprise. "It doesn't change what I did to him. It's unforgivable and inexcusable."

He knows it at the bottom of his heart. He knows that the best thing for Sherlock would be parting their ways and never seeing each other again.

"Yet here you are," shrugs Mr Holmes. "You love him, don't you?" he asks thoughtfully.

"It's hard not to, he's my best friend," sighs John.

"And that's not the answer to the question I asked," replies Mr Holmes. "You're in love with him, always had been," he says and pauses for a second while John's heart skips a beat. "Chances are that it started the very moment you looked at him and he opened his mouth," he shrugs. "If it didn't happen back then, it had to happen before his death for certain. Because you weren't mourning just a friend, you were mourning a spouse. How long after meeting Mary you proposed to her?"

"About six months," admits John softly, floored by Mr Holmes's perceptiveness.

"And not because you loved her enough to want to make her your wife," adds Mr Holmes. "You loved her, in some way, enough to see yourself spending the rest of your life with her, enough to decide that proposing to her when you did was a good idea. Why wait if your life won't get better than that? But it had and you still chose her because she was supposed to be safe, because you knew that you wouldn't survive an encore of what happened if it happened again."

John nods slowly and he whispers, "But it had."

"Yes," Mr Holmes agrees. "It had and it was your wife that made it happen. Your latest outburst doesn't surprise me now. Everything you had been through within last five years contributed to what happened. You never forgave Sherlock for the deception of the fall because deceiving each other about the big stuff is not what partners should be doing. Hiding stuff like birthday or anniversary presents is okay but pretending to be dead for over two years, regardless the reasoning, is not okay. Then there was Mary, the one you married and the one you found yourself married to. You resented her, your marriage," he pauses. "I assume that your daughter wasn't planned," he states and looks at John expectantly.

John nods slowly.

"That contributed too," Mr Holmes nods. "So you found yourself in a new marriage with the woman you didn't chose to marry, a child on the way and you felt trapped. As long as Sherlock required your assistance as a doctor you had something to hide behind but he got better eventually and with him pushing you towards reconciliation and social pressure…" he pauses. "Newlywed husbands don't leave their pregnant wives without ramifications so you tried to make it work, mostly for the sake of your daughter," he muses. "But you couldn't stop resenting Mary so you wanted to punish her for her choices. Except the emotional affair with the girl you met on the bus while probably brief enough to give you some semblance of control over your life was followed by a proof that you could have your daughter and Sherlock together and that you could make it work. Hence the decision to leave your wife but things didn't go the way they were supposed to go and it got into your head."

It's like listening to Elsa and he finds himself nodding internally even though he's staring at the older man in shock. He didn't expect this kind of perceptiveness from someone who looks so ordinary. But Sherlock's perceptiveness had to come from somewhere. Last year when he talked with her he decided that it had to come from Mrs Holmes but now he can see that Sherlock took it from both of them.

Mr Holmes stares at him expectantly in the same way Sherlock used to when they met. Expecting a praise, no that was Sherlock. What was the question? Oh…

"It doesn't matter," sighs John. "He doesn't feel things that way. I know that he cares…"

Mr Holmes interrupts him by whistling softly before he says, "And that was the sound of your IQ plunging into double digits." Then he looks at the floor and adds, "It even splashed itself on the floor."

John frowns.

"Listen, John," says Mr Holmes calmly. "As we learned today there's a lot of stuff which I didn't know about my youngest son. But stuff I do know, I know for certain. I had time to learn it, to verify my own observations and I know him," he pauses. "Sherlock is gayer than a rainbow flag, always had been," he says simply. "I knew that since he was about twelve or thirteen. Finding out his type took some time but it wasn't surprising," he shrugs. "After all beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models…"

"He said that too," John interjects.

"Of course he did," Mr Holmes snorts. "I spent forty years in the army and even though we always lived away from the base and had friends and acquaintances amongst the civilians distinct majority of people that visited us on semi regular if rotating basis were soldiers. Some of them were my friends, some were my subordinates, occasionally it was a crow that felt more comfortable talking to me away from the barracks," he shrugs. "Majority of them were men, mostly younger men and some of them even I could recognise as aesthetically good looking. If I could do that and men never interested me sexually imagine how interesting they had to seem to my gay son?" he says simply and shrugs.

John nods slowly.

"Granted, a good looking man in an uniform could turn his head but in order to keep it turned one had to have something up here," Mr Holmes says and he points at his temples. "He had crushes, ones that resolved themselves due to his interests heterosexuality or their inability to stand him at his worst as much as his best," he shrugs and grimaces. "That was always a problem with them," he adds and sighs. "He kept trying, at least until he dropped out of mastery program and disappeared from the face of the planet. We tried to gently pry why or steer conversations towards the subjects of potential interests but afterwards it never really worked."

"Why?" asks John curiously.

"You will have to ask him," Mr Holmes says simply. "All that I know for certain was that up until then he occasionally made an effort to head out and met with someone who hit on him. But neither of them became serious enough to warrant moving in together or getting through the horror of meeting the parents," he grimaces. "So a while after he stopped we gave up, well I did. As long as he was happy with how he lived his life to me he could sleep around or live like a monk. That didn't matter."

It sounds reasonable and John finds himself nodding.

"Then imagine our surprise when about six years ago after a huge row that resulted with Sherlock storming from the accommodations Mycroft at the time was maintaining for him we got a call from Mycroft that Sherlock not only found himself new accommodations but also a flatmate," says Mr Holmes with a small smile. "Sherlock isn't a big fan of people in general and always abhorred sharing living space with other people. If the alternative between living in a dormitory or sharing a room with someone and living alone in a closet was an option he would always chose the closet. When he was at school he kept chasing roommates away until the board gave up and put his bed in a storage closet. He was very happy about it."

"Are you saying that I'm special?" asks John curiously.

Mr Holmes snorts and says, "Let me think. A freshly discharged military doctor which alone implies that you've got something up here," he points at his temples. "Then there's physical type on which you ticked nearly all the boxes. Then there was your appreciation towards him…"

"He shot me down," John interjects.

"Let me guess, within twenty-four hours of meeting him?" asks Mr Holmes curiously. "Of course, he did," he snorts. "You were supposed to help him pay the rent, weren't you? Sherlock has problems in social situation and probably by then he felt confident in his decision that romantic and sexual entanglements weren't for him," he shrugs. "Nobody gets hurt by looking though," he shrugs again. "And I hazard a guess that he was a bit worried that he will chase you away within few weeks at the most. So why bother then."

"He did try," admits John. "Or it felt like it sometimes in the beginning. You wouldn't believe the stuff we argued about back then. He drove me nuts."

"But you stayed," Mr Holmes points out.

"Well, we had to make some rules to ensure somewhat peaceful cohabitation," says John with small smile. "Like not keeping human remains on the same shelves with food, the usage of electric pot for experiments and proper labelling of the inedible stuff in the freezer," he adds fondly. "He pissed me off with that one so much that once I served him toes with mycosis for dinner, told him that if he won't start labelling frozen stuff properly then next time he will get human haggis."

"That had to go well," Mr Holmes smirks.

"Well, he devoted next morning to labelling every single bloody thing in the fridge," chuckles John. "Imagine my surprise when I wanted to make an omelette for dinner and I found each singular egg labelled. It would be fine if it ended at that and a sulk but while he was at it he switched the contents of the jars of our instant coffees and put decaf in the normal jar," he adds with a fond smile.

"That had to be a very funny morning at work," Mr Holmes snorts.

"It was," John admits. "But I got in touch with my inner, distant Scotsman next morning after I heard him coming back from a stake out. I had to wait for him until he fell asleep, he mistook the hornpipes for fire alarm, ran into the chair he left in the middle of the path between the kitchen door and the bathroom corridor and he nearly brained himself on the breakfast bar so badly that rather than laugh at his annoyance I had to stitch his right temple. He milked it for over a week. And speaking of milk, he always used it up, mostly for experiments but never bothered to pick one in return. Weirdly he always remembered to pick up a four-pack or a six-pack of beer even though he rarely drank it, unless I was cooking something very greasy."

Mr Holmes smiles at that comment and sighs, "Alcohol wasn't his vice of a choice as you know."

"It wasn't a vice back then," sighs John. "I mean, he told me to shut up when I told Lestrade during the drug bust that the idea was ridiculous but…" he pauses, "it wasn't something that was hanging over our heads back then."

"But it does now?" asks Mr Holmes pensively. "Since when?"

"After my wedding," says John with a grimace. "Believe it or not, first time I saw him after we returned from honeymoon was in a drug-den, sleeping off a high. After that aborted exile…" he pauses, "I was never completely certain, not up until after few weeks after Katie's christening. Around her he was always sober."

"And you never questioned him why?" asks Mr Holmes.

"I tried, he wasn't exactly forthcoming with believable answers," mutters John.

"Of course he wasn't," sighs Mr Holmes. "And you didn't see a pattern in there, do you?"

John shakes his head.

"After your wedding, prior to impending birth of your daughter and in the fallout of your wife's sudden demise," says Mr Holmes simply. "How is that when he believes that he's about to lose you for good he completely loses his marbles?"

"I don't know," sighs John.

"I do," sighs Mr Holmes. "And apparently I have to spell it out for you," he grimaces. "Answer me this question. What was the very first thing he did after he returned to London after Mycroft got him patched and cleaned up? Because it certainly wasn't visiting his dear old Mummy and Daddy. We didn't see him until the third day after his return and even then instead of heading out for lunch like we always did in the past he invited us to Baker Street which he never had done before. Not for the lack of trying on Mal's part. Then he shoved us out of the door the very moment you showed up."

"He always liked his privacy and he was never very forthcoming about his past," answers John.

"Really?" snorts Mr Holmes. "Pardon me, and accept that I have some experience in that regard, after raising two older sons through teenage years. Because it looked to me like a teenage boy trying his best to keep his parents from trying to embarrass him in front of his crush."

It's hard to keep the warmth tendrils of hope that spreads through him suddenly. Because Mr Holmes is right, he might not know everything about Sherlock but he knew other stuff. But Mr Holmes keeps talking.

"He's in love with you, you idiot," says Mr Holmes fondly. "I can't tell you for how long but odds are that he never had a chance to not fall for you. He might have consider himself married to his work but then he went and made you an integral and irreplaceable part of it. You don't know the republics of former Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia as well as I do, you know very little about the scumbags that still delve there or their methods. Sherlock didn't make it back home because he was lucky, he made it because he was resilient, because in the darkest moments he was holding himself alive by shreds of the only thing they couldn't take away from him," the older man adds grimly. "He came back for you and after his return he reorganised his life to keep you with him in any capacity you allowed him. He still does," he sighs. "Because if my best friend had done to me what you had done to him I assure you that I would pay him back in kind and afterwards I would very seriously reconsider the best and friend parts in our relationship and most probably I would have chosen to dissolve it. Yet here you are."

John's breath catches in his throat and he chokes out, "I know that I don't deserve him."

"It's not about deserving," Mr Holmes shrugs. "He loves you, John," he sighs heavily. "He loves you ardently, he loves you fiercely, he loves you hopelessly. He would burn the world around to keep you happy and safe and he would burn himself in the process. He will never act on it though, out of fear that if he speaks he will lose you forever, he would rather spend the rest of his life taking whatever scraps of attention and affection you would give him. If you truly love him and I think you do, you will have to act on it first because he will never make a first move…"

"I don't deserve him," John repeats.

"But it's not up to you to decide for him what he deserves," says Mr Holmes simply. "He chose you, he kept choosing you over and over and he will keep doing it for as long as he breaths," he sighs. "I know that, he's my son. I knew that Mal was it for me and I know that I was it for her. Blessedly we met each other when we were young and we got to spend over five decades together. Some people aren't that lucky. Sherry never got that chance and he will never get it. Myc never found anyone that would have turned his world on its axis and as pissed off at him as I'm right now I still sincerely wish him that. But Sherlock… it's up to you," he shrugs, then he peers into his mug. "Tea has gone cold, I will make another pot. I'll be in the kitchen if you will want to find me," he adds as stand up, collects the pot and the mugs and leaves the room.

John keeps sitting on the couch still reeling from what he heard.

It wasn't easy to push down what he felt for Sherlock back when he thought that he lost him forever, that he would never have a chance to tell Sherlock how he felt about him. And later when he got the miracle he asked for he fought against all instincts that pushed him to run into Sherlock's arms. For God's sake he was so terrified of losing him again, of giving Sherlock this kind of control to destroy him again that he married a woman he barely knew and as it turned out later he didn't know at all. He still nearly lost Sherlock, kept losing him still. To the bullet, to a bloody heart-attack, to drugs and to his own inability to let Sherlock in.

He will keep losing him still and Sherlock would keep dying for his sake if John will let him. Josie might keep him from doing something stupid for a while but she's still a baby and incapable of reasoning with him and sooner rather than later Sherlock will find another way to destroy himself by believing that this would be what John wants.

But he doesn't want Sherlock to keep dying for him, he wants him to live for him.

And there's only one way to convince Sherlock to live for him even if John doesn't deserve Sherlock's friendship, let alone his love and his single-minded devotion.

So he takes a deep breath, stands up and heads upstairs.

He finds Sherlock still in his bedroom, seated on the bed and staring vacantly at the wall above the cot, his phone lying next to him on the bed.

When John closes the door behind himself Sherlock turns around to look at him and starts standing up as he says, "John, what did he tell you? You look like hell."

"Because I'm in hell," John says softly. "One I made for myself because in all the instances that mattered I chose a coward's way out. I never should have," he pauses and he sees that Sherlock is about to speak. "Please let me finish, Sherlock and then you can talk."

Sherlock nods slowly albeit slightly reluctantly. For a brief moment he looks at the bed, hesitating between standing and sitting down. In the end choses to stand, his back ramrod straight, shoulders squared and head held up high. Bracing himself for horrible news.

It is horrible news for Sherlock because if Mr Holmes is right then Sherlock will never have a chance to get what he truly deserves. He will never give up on John, even though he should, it would certainly make his life easier. And if Mr Holmes is wrong…

At the very least he owes Sherlock the ultimate truth.

So he straightens his spine, squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath as he lets all the walls he built around his heart collapse before he speaks.


	10. Chapter 10

_One need not be a chamber to be haunted, one need not be a house. _

_The brain has corridors surpassing material place._

_~Emily Dickinson_

**Sherlock**

He doesn't mean to blurt it out but he doesn't know how to answer Daddy's question either without divulging some part of it. As expected, because it's Daddy, it's enough for him and rather than keep his mouth shut he keeps talking. He even calls him stupid, John too, for a reason Sherlock cannot understand.

And suddenly as much as he loves Daddy he just wants to get away from here. After all, he had done what he came here for and Daddy can handle informing Mummy. Granted it will end with her coming after him for not telling her in person. But he can deal with it when it will happen.

So he latches on the distraction that John offers in the form of invoking Mycroft's name and the weirdest thing of all, he finds himself defending the bugger. But he owes Mycroft as much. Mycroft didn't push him into drugs and he had done everything he could do to help him, sometimes with Sherlock's permission and sometimes without it.

Then the truth just slips out of his mouth even though it was the only thing he wanted to still keep away from his parents. Not out of malice, but out of kindness. Because they didn't see it when it started. Because they didn't know until the shit really hit the fan after V…

He doesn't blame them though. It wasn't their fault, they did everything to help him. It wasn't their fault that nothing they tried worked. Only the drugs helped and the problem eventually went away.

Until now, he realises when he feels his left hand tremble and he knows what will be coming next even though it was ages since he felt it last time. The pain.

He retreats out of the room in hurry, using Josie as an excuse. He manages to close the door of his old bedroom behind himself just as the cramp hits with the full force.

The pain is nearly blinding, as it always has been when it happened and he finds himself sliding down against the door to the floor, clutching at his left wrist. It hurts so badly that he has to grit his teeth to keep himself from screaming because he doesn't want to wake the girls.

Why are you back? He thinks furiously. Why the hell you came back?

'I can answer that,' someone says and it's not a voice he heard before.

Weirdly though, it seems a bit familiar to his ears. But only once he realises that it's his own voice he can summon to the forefront of his mind the image of his deceased older brother.

Sherrinford is sitting cross-legged on the bed. His longish hair are falling around his face, his eyes are closed and his hands are resting on his knees.

'But then again you already know the answer, don't you?' he asks simply. 'Puberty is a bitch,' he shrugs. 'It tends to dredge up a lot of issues and when it hit you had a lot of them. Stuff you couldn't remember, stuff your hormonal brain tried to push to the surface.'

'Post-traumatic stress disorder presenting itself as an intermittent tremor that was often accompanied by a psychosomatic pain,' he realises.

'Weirdly enough it kept manifesting the most when you were using your preferred coping mechanism which was playing the violin. You found solace in the violin but your brain tried to keep you from pulling up walls,' Sherrinford agrees. 'And what specialists you and our parents avoided like a plague when you started knocking on their doors?'

'Psychiatrist and psychologists,' answers Sherlock.

But it doesn't make sense. If his problem with his left hand was a physical manifestation of PTSD then why it's back now. He tells his brother the same thing.

'Because you aren't done,' says Sherrinford simply. 'Me and Rosie aren't the only ghosts of your past, Sherlock. There's another one and he wants to be freed too. Ain't that curious though?' he asks.

'What?' Sherlock asks.

'Why your left hand?' asks Sherrinford.

'Because I'm a violinist and for one the dominant hand isn't as important as the not dominant one. The other sets the tune. You can't play violin one handed, not well at the very least,' he replies.

'Bollocks,' Sherrinford snorts.

'You didn't play,' Sherlock retorts.

'Are you sure?' asks Sherrinford pointedly. 'The thing is, brother mine, you know a square root of jackshit about who I was when I was alive. What you have is photographs of me and Daddy's memories. That's it,' he shrugs. 'The only reason why you are capable of summoning me at all is because you have seen the photographs. Even now your mind is trying to fill the blanks by giving me your voice while trying to divorce your speech pattern from mine. It's not even doing a very good job.'

'So you're me?' whispers Sherlock.

'Or I'm you," Sherrinford shrugs. 'How would you know, Sherlock?' he pauses. 'The only physical proof of your own existence as a separate human being are the evaluations of your mental capabilities from before the fire. How is that, that a child that only ticks of several boxes on Asperger's tests prior to the traumatic event after it occurred ticks all the boxes?'

'You had Asperger Syndrome?' asks Sherlock.

'Well, Mummy has a mild form of AS and even though Mycroft wasn't officially diagnosed, he does possess some characteristics. I'm not saying that he has AS but even to you he always felt like he was tethering on the brink of the scope,' answers Sherrinford.

'No,' Sherlock denies. 'I know who I am.'

'Do you?' asks Sherrinford. 'Ask Daddy about the violin. Ask him about insomnia. Ask him about cigarettes. You already know about chemistry and geology…'

'I hate astronomy,' Sherlock interjects.

'But you do appreciate the beauty of the stars,' says Sherrinford simply.

'I don't have to know astronomy to do that,' he objects firmly.

'No, but someone taught you that, didn't they?' asks Sherrinford.

'I know who I am,' repeats Sherlock.

'The only thing you know beyond a shadow of a doubt was that due to my untimely demise my paths had never crossed with John Watson,' says Sherrinford with a shrug. 'You know the man who is hopelessly and irrevocably in love with John Watson. The man you just left with your father, you know. The man who knows that you're in love with your best friend.'

'Bugger,' mumbles Sherlock, more to himself than to the lingering image of his deceased brother.

He dismisses image of Sherrinford and starts standing up just as Josie starts stirring in her sleep.

He could take her out of the crib and bring her downstairs, get John into changing her while he would have a stern talk with Daddy about the subject of his eternal devotion to John.

But in spite of stirring in her sleep Josie is still asleep and he doesn't want to wake her. If he brought her downstairs he most certainly would have to wake her. So he sighs and gently picks her up from the crib. Changing the nappy doesn't take a lot of time and blessedly Josie sleeps through it without waking up and once done he returns her into the crib she continues sleeping. Just as he adjusts the covers around the girls he hears the vibrations of his phone.

Hoping that it's Mycroft, finally, he picks it up from the nightstand quickly but as he looks at the display he realises that it's Mrs Hudson.

He frowns at the screen. She doesn't call, him at the very least. With others she can spend hours on the phone but him she texts since she learned how to use texting because he almost never answers when called but he always reads the texts (as long as they don't start with 'Hi'). She knows that and she's calling him now. Something had to happen.

He picks up the call and says, "Hudders. What's wrong?"

In the distance he can hear the sound of water pouring into a cup. Coffee express, he realises.

"Sherlock?" she asks. "Oh, thank God," she sighs. "I've been calling John for a while but he isn't picking up," she explains.

Sherlock looks at John's phone and tries to wake it. The screen however remains dark.

"Battery died," he replies. "What happened?"

"I was hoodwinked," she huffs. "I still can't believe their nerve, Sherlock. When I will find them I will throttle them."

"Start from the beginning," he tells her.

She sighs and takes a deep breath before she does, "Shortly after three I got a call from my niece that Margaret, my sister had a heart-attack. She claimed that it was a bad one and while that girl was always prone to colourising and blowing things out of proportion I wasn't planning to risk this being the first instance when she didn't."

"So you called John and left Baker Street," he finishes. "And your sister?"

"I drove down to Southampton and immediately headed over to the hospital to which she was taken. Imagine my surprise when – after I started asking about her and where she was – I was informed that the only Margaret Martin they have in the system was a sixteen years old girl with a broken leg and not a seventy-five years old woman with a heart-attack," she says and huffs angrily. "I asked them to double check but the result was the same. I tried calling Monica but she wasn't answering so I started calling the hospitals in the area but the only thing I eventually learned was that the only other Margaret Martin that was admitted to another hospital within last forty-eight hours was a toddler with a very nasty ear infection. I kept calling Monica and her husband in between but all the calls keep going straight to voicemail."

"So you went to your sister's place to check upon her," he says.

"Obviously," she practically snorts. "Found the house locked, their car in the garage. I waited a while to see if they would return. I would probably sit there through the rest of the afternoon until morning if I didn't run into one of their neighbours who takes care of their house when they leave occasionally. She told me that yesterday the whole family left for a cruise to Spain. Apparently Monica won some contest or something but the tickets were only viable for the ship that was leaving Southampton yesterday afternoon. It wasn't a huge problem for them, Monica and her husband work from home and could afford taking vacation at such a short notice…"

"Could have been a rouse," he suggests.

"That's the weirdest part," she sighs. "The contest wasn't a rouse. After I found a payphone and called her from it, it turned out that they were really on a ship that was sailing to Malaga, the whole family. Monica, Neil, Margaret and the kids. I placated her with some lie about having trouble with my phone."

"Are you sure that you were calling the same number?" he asks pointedly.

"Sherlock, I have a bad hip, not a bad eyesight. Where do you think I found the number I used to call Monica from the payphone?" she sighs in exasperation. "I just don't understand who could possibly use such an elaborate rouse to get me out of the house. Especially with you and John at Baker Street…"

"We aren't at Baker Street," he tells her. "We're in Sussex and we're intending to stay the whole weekend there," he clarifies.

Provided that I won't run away from here before the weekend ends, he thinks to himself.

"Are you heading back to London?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm at a service station just outside of Camberley. I had to stop for coffee," she answers.

Her admission makes him feel uneasy. He knows that she's more than capable of taking care of herself, he had seen her in action before. She might be a bit rusty but her admission that he wasn't her first smackhead is true. When he first met her she had excellent reflexes and could outrun him easily (not that at the time it was a very hard thing to do). She's also an excellent actress that could con CIA's supposedly highly trained agents into believing that she was nothing more than a scared and snivelling old lady. Had that idiot been alone at the time, odds were pretty high that rather than holding her at the gunpoint he would have found himself being hold at a gunpoint until Sherlock's return.

She's capable but also returning to an empty house at Baker Street after someone went through great lengths to draw her away from it.

Mycroft? Doesn't exactly make sense. Then who and to what end?

No, she definitely shouldn't be there alone, he decides. As much as they squabble and snipe at each other on occasion she's the first person in his adult life that accepted him unconditionally and looked after him when he didn't want to return home with his metaphorical tail between his legs. She's the Mummy he always wanted Mummy to be because as much as he loves Mummy he sees her faults, one of which was not being able to accept that he was an adult and capable of making his own decisions. Hudders isn't like that, she had done enough of bad decisions herself to know that things don't always work out and that people aren't ideal. He always loved her for that.

"What would you say to a change in the direction?" he asks. "It might extend your drive considerably but…" he hangs his voice.

He doesn't say it because he doesn't have to say it.

"Where to?" she asks because she gets it.

"Just outside southern border of Crowborough, Sussex there's this little thing called Stone Cross. Driving west from the main crossing there you will turn into Redbridge Lane. Once you leave the crossing you will drive by few houses on that road and a copse of trees on both sides of the road. Once the copse ends you will see fields on both sides of the road. It's the only house on the left side of the road but the gate is behind a sharp left turn in the road and you might miss it," he explains. "Call me when you will get to Stone Cross and I will direct you from there."

"Does it have any distinct characteristics?" she asks.

"It's bloody red. Painted, not brick. My mother remodelled it so it has no distinct style. It looks like a former cottage that kept expanding in every direction until it stopped looking like a cottage and started to look like pfft," he replies. "It was supposed to be L-shaped but somehow the architect had failed to achieve that. Either way it can't be missed."

"Then I won't miss it," she says. "What about the owners? Normal people aren't keen on receiving visitors that late."

"Well, the owners aren't normal people," he shrugs. "They're my parents," he admits, "for that reason alone they will accept every guest I will let in."

"You brought John to your parents?" she asks and her tone tethers dangerously close to excitement.

"And Rosie too," he says because he doesn't want to get into explaining how Rosie turned into Katie and then Josie to her over the phone.

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighs heavily.

"We both needed a change of scenery," he says simply. "Rosie might benefit from fresh country air even though it mostly smells vile."

"Of course it does," she agrees. "You hardly ever leave London so the fresh air is a vile thing for you. I will see you soon."

"Please, try to not get arrested for speeding," he sighs.

"Bye, I have a coffee to finish and satnav to set," she replies. "I hate this thing," she adds before she disconnects.

He puts the phone on the bed and sighs heavily as he fixates on the wall above the crib.

Who would have wanted to draw her away from Baker Street with such an elaborate rouse? Could it be the not dead members of Mic Na Héireann? Whatever Daisy prepared for them she couldn't have gotten all of them. Gangs don't operate like that, they have leaders, lieutenants and roachers. But if it's them how they managed to find him and Baker Street so quickly?

There's also the matter of Hudders' phone and why it couldn't reach her niece's phone. She could make other calls from it but not this one.

Spyware? If so, then whose?

Frank Hudson had been dead for ages and all of his lieutenants were serving at the very minimum twenty-five to life in prison. Well, aside of those that were sentenced to death and executed within three years of him. But what about the regular members? Several of them got into a stand-off with Miami PD and aside of one that had been shot in the spine they were all dead. Some others attached themselves to other cartels in the area, a few traded their secrets for their freedom and position of informants for Miami PD. But eventually nearly all of the members of Hudson's cartel were either dead or incarcerated. He checked it with Miami PD personally day after that CIA idiot with his cronies broke into Baker Street.

So, Mic Na Héireann or remains of Moriarty's network? He removed big players from the board, people that worked with Moriarty but he didn't always have a chance to take care of simple soldiers. No, he left that to local police force or Interpol.

Mic Na Héireann or Moriarty's network.

Mic Na Héireann would have a lot of against Daisy but how they managed to figure out that she was his daughter so fast. Mary? Strike that, Moran. She was playing a long game against John and she killed the only DI who knew about Daisy's identity. She intended to kill Daisy after she helped her dispatch the top members of Mic Na Héireann, that much was evident from the shot the incapacitated Daisy but she made a mistake by not making the first shot the headshot.

Like when she shot him.

She was very good at what she did. She effectively deceived him and John both, even convinced them that she died when she hadn't. And Mycroft was up to his ears in that mess.

Mycroft had an unlimited access to the top British spyware that could remotely control smartphones. He knew that from the autopsy, he saw it in action. But why Mycroft needed to remove Mrs Hudson from Baker Street? Mycroft would have figured within seconds that if Mrs Hudson left the premises of Baker Street while Sherlock was still recovering from his recent drug binge and the hellish detox that followed it, then she wouldn't do it without contacting someone who would take over watching him.

Maybe he needed them both in the same place. But why? He wasn't answering their calls and no one followed them in London, let alone outside of it.

But if it wasn't Mycroft…

Then it surges to the forefront of his mind. Pressure points. Moriarty knew them, as did Magnussen. Moriarty knew that by painting the targets on John, Hudders and Greg he could manipulate Sherlock into following him to his grave. Except Sherlock and Mycroft were prepared for that eventuality back then. They forgot it with Magnussen though. Or had they? He and Mycroft had a plan on how Magnussen should be handled but they underestimated the man.

Because Sherlock was Mycroft's pressure point, Sherlock's was John and John's was Mary. By owning Mary Magnussen nearly brought them all to their knees and that's why he had to die.

But Sherlock wasn't Mycroft's only pressure point. Because as much as Mycroft grumbled about ordinariness of their parents he did his best to remove them from Magnussen's reach until their presence in England became a part of the plan that was supposed to bring him down. Then there was Daisy. Mycroft knew about Daisy and Josie and had to go through great lengths to keep them out of Magnussen's reach too.

He couldn't do that alone, could he? Someone else other than Mycroft had to know about Daisy, someone had to help him keep her from Magnussen's radar. Mar… Moran knew too but she found her own way to learn about Daisy.

John was convinced that Daisy's death was part of Moran's vendetta against him but unlike Magnussen who liked to own people Moran wanted to break John. She used her fake death to drive a wedge between him and John and she almost bloody succeeded. Having done that she moved on Daisy and she found her pressure point in Mic Na Héireann, MacNamara's continued existence and Josie's safety. And by agreeing to help her remove the threat to Josie's safety she gained Daisy's trust.

A reverse of Magnussen with her own twist. Had it worked as she intended it to. Sacrificing her life for Sherlock was supposed to drive wedge between Sherlock and John. Killing Daisy and finding a way to put her existence on Sherlock's radar was supposed to drive a wedge between Sherlock and Mycroft. Effectively separating the three of them.

But what she had against Mycroft? Mycroft was a very complicated pressure point for Sherlock. Their relationship as adults was always strained by Mycroft's need to control Sherlock and his decisions which Sherlock vehemently resented. But they did work together when a threat against the other showed up. At the same time they could go for weeks, at times even months, without speaking to each other.

Josie, Daisy, Mycroft, Sherlock, John, Mary and Katie. Take a Holmes from the Holmeses and a Watson from the Watsons. Mary's and Daisy's deaths were supposed to divide them and make them easier targets. Could Moran alone be so elaborate in her revenge? She was very meticulous and had to be insanely patient to execute her revenge on John. But what Daisy's death was supposed to mean for John on the grand scale of things?

To remind him about the man he killed? She tried that with Sherlock and it didn't work as she intended it to. John completely missed the clue because he had no reason to connect the dots. He was too pissed off with Mary and too worried about Sherlock's health to dig into similarities between Sherlock's wound and Sebastian Moran's death.

The same bullet that was pulled from DI Hughes body matched the one that was pulled from Sherlock. They didn't get their hands on a ballistic report on the bullet that killed Daisy but he could bet that it too would match. If once is an incident, twice is a coincidence (which at the time went over John's head) then what the third time means?

In serial murders it forms a pattern. In revenge sche…

What if Daisy didn't have a chance to kill Moran? What if Moran walked away? What if the ballistic report found its way to Sherlock and he realised that the bullet that killed his daughter came from the same gun that nearly killed him while he and John were estranged. Would he be able to convince John that Mary killed Daisy? Would John believe him?

Regardless of the answers to what ifs and could have beens there's one thing that's certain, someone is playing a game with them, turning them into pawns and he cannot see the whole board.

Not without Mycroft. Not without John. Not without Mycroft and John together.

'Welcome to the final problem,' Moriarty's voice whispers into his ear.

'You're fucking dead and have been for years,' he chides him and tries to dismiss him but Moriarty is right there, leaning against the crib.

'Am I?' Moriarty asks.

'Definitely,' he fumes.

'You know what's your problem with Moriarty, brother mine?' Sherrinford asks as he walks towards Moriarty. 'You still see him as a singular, sick but highly intelligent man.'

'If you're planning to suggest that Moriarty is a woman that happens to be our baby sister that somehow survived the fire you can bugger off this very second,' he snorts.

'I didn't say that,' Sherrinford shrugs and looks Moriarty dead in the eyes. 'Bugger off, Dick.'

'My name is Jim Moriarty,' Moriarty spits.

'It bloody isn't,' says Sherrinford simply. 'Your name is Richard Brook, you're a bloody actor albeit a very talented one,' he snorts. 'But that's all you are, Dick. An actor, a pawn in a game, your own game because you know it. James Moriarty is not a person, it's a concept. Always had been, from the very beginning and it had started long before you soiled your first nappy, Dick. Maintaining peace in the country, even in the universe, is always about balance. Between good and evil, order and disorder. Someone has to be bad so someone else has to be good. The only way to maintain the balance is keeping a tight control over everything.'

'You're starting to sound like a fortune cookie,' Moriarty snorts.

'At the very least I'm real,' says Sherrinford simply. 'In a sense that as a human being I existed. I never lost my identity, you had. But that was the price you paid for an unlimited access to everything you wanted and you always wanted to prove that you're worth more.'

'Oh, do bugger off,' Moriarty groans.

'You heard it before, Sherlock,' says Sherrinford as he turns to him. 'You heard it from me, the story of Professor James Moriarty, the brilliant mathematician that became the crime mogul towards the last decades of Victorian era. The devil that British government at the time maintained to control what, when, where and how foreign spies could get their hands on. You also heard the story of another man, the one who dared to oppose his existence and he paid for it with his life and his own identity. Do you remember now?'

He shakes his head.

'Whose names you carry, Sherlock?" asks Sherrinford calmly.

'Grandma Sherlock's and her first and last husbands,' he answers.

'A coincidence,' Sherrinford snorts. 'Try again.'

'The universe is rarely so lazy,' he counters.

'Yes, but you do remember Grandma Sherlock, brother mine,' Sherrinford shrugs. 'Also you're sounding like Mycroft. Try harder. Who named you, Sherlock?'

'Grandma Sherlock,' he answers.

'After?' Sherrinford presses.

'I already told you,' Sherlock snarls.

'As did I,' Sherrinford shrugs. 'William Sherlock Scott...'

And suddenly it comes. The smell of salt in the air. The whoosh that waves make when they hit the sand. Two hands holding his, bigger hands, his brother's and his grandmother's hands.

Then he sees the tombstone. It's about one meter high, maybe higher, he's a child here so his measurements might be off. But the top of the tombstone doesn't tower over him, that's certain. Then the engraving on the tombstone materialises in front of his eyes:

_HERE LIE THE EARTHLY REMAINS OF ONE_

_WILLIAM S. S. WATSON_

_Born 6__th__ January 1854_

_Died 6__th__ February 1919_

_THE BEST AND BRAVEST MAN_

_WHO LOST HIS LIFE AND NAME_

_FOR THE TRUTH THAT TRIED_

_TO KILL HIM TWICE BEFORE HE_

_CAUGHT A BLOODY FLU THAT_

_KILLED HIM FOR GOOD. MAY_

_THE TRUTH FINALLY SET YOU_

_FREE OUR BELOVED FRIEND._

_TO SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_JHW, JCW & SVW_

"Who was he?" he remembers asking as he turns to Grandma Sherlock.

"My father's dearest and most beloved friend," she answers softly. "Back in the day it was called a brother in everything but blood. That's why when he lost his own he took my father's name," she sighs. "Poor bugger. All his life he fought for the truth and that was how they repaid him, by denying him his own identity and the proof of his existence," she adds lividly. "They reduced him to nothing but a figment of one's idiot imagination, bastards."

"She means her father's rightful spouse, Billy, in spite of two legally wedded wives," says Sherrinford.

"Oh, hush you," she chides him. "The walls have ears."

"Then we're in luck that the nearest walls would make an awful lot of noise if someone tried to listen to us," replies Sherrinford. "Also since 1967 what happens between two men above the age of twenty-one behind the walls in private is no longer punished by law."

"Oh, Sherry, if it was only that simple," she sighs. "Most probably I won't live long enough to see the day when their vows that were exchanged in private could be spoken in public, infront of God and the witnesses. But I hope that you will and hopefully before you would live to my age," she adds fondly.

"So what was his name?" he asks her because at the time it was the only thing that bothered him.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," she answers.

Suddenly he hears the door opening and the memory starts to dissolve in front of his eyes. The sound of waves diminishes and changes to two distinctive breathing patterns coming from the crib in front of him. There's also a different one and the sound of closing the door.

So he turns in the direction of the door and spots John. He looks awful, pale and wide-eyed, as if someone dropped on him something horrible.

He probably did, he realises and he wants to slap himself as he stands up. He should have come back downstairs as fast as possible after he stopped talking with Hudders.

"John, what did he tell you? You look like hell," he says even if these words break his heart.

"Because I'm in hell," John says softly. "One I made for myself because in all the instances that mattered I chose a coward's way out. I never should have," he pauses and as sees that Sherlock is about to interrupt him he adds. "Please let me finish, Sherlock and then you can talk."

Sherlock nods slowly albeit he isn't sure to what he's agreeing. Because if it is what he thinks it is then he doesn't want to hear it. He just can't. He's too tired, weighed down by the avalanche of issues, problems and mysteries that surround him. It's the worst possible time to hear that while John is touched by his sentiment he doesn't return it.

Suddenly he can't stand maintain eye contact with John so he looks down at the bed, contemplating whatever or not he should sit down for it. He bloody deserves is. Except he isn't a Victorian maiden and he won't faint at the news that John will never love him more than as a friend.

So, he chooses to stand, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, head held up high. Staring at John's mouth like a man that's about to be executed stares into the barrel of a gun knowing that the words that will leave it will pierce his heart.

John too straightens his spine, squares his shoulders before he takes a deep breath.

Here it comes, Sherlock Holmes, here it comes.


	11. Chapter 11

_Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable._

_~Bruce Lee_

**John**

He straightens his spine, squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath as he lets all the walls he built around his heart collapse before he speaks. At least, he tries to speak because his mouth opens but no words come out.

You can still go back, he thinks.

No, you can't, another thought follows it.

Because it's Sherlock and Sherlock knows his father and he knows him too. If John turns away from him now he will lose Sherlock forever. Turning away from his love now would be like choosing Mary over Sherlock when Sherlock returned. Would be like going back to a flat that while comfortable and spacious never felt like home, with the woman he believed at the time that he loved instead of coming back to Baker Street. It would be like proposing to Mary again. Like asking Sherlock to be the best man at his wedding, to stand beside him while he was marrying someone else.

_I've never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will __always__ be there, __always__, for all three of you._

_Get away from me, John! Stay well back!_

_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now._

And then there's this.

_John, there's something ... I should say; I-I've __meant__ to say always and then I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now. Sherlock is actually a girl's name._

Voice soft and unsure. Hesitating in the way he never had. The pause after 'I might as well say it now'. Sherlock's lips moving to follow with the comment that Sherlock is actually a girl's name but there's something weird about the way Sherlock's mouth is forming words. Because that's not how one speaks Sherlock. Because it wasn't Sherlock that was supposed to leave Sherlock's mouth, it was an...

I…

I love you.

I love you, John.

_Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson ... would you mind if we took a moment?_

They never said it at loud, never acknowledged what six months undercover in Eastern Europe actually meant. But they both knew what was Sherlock's penance for protecting Mary. A suicide mission that would prove to be fatal to him around the time Mycroft had estimated.

Culverton Smith's voice.

_Leave him be._

And then Sherlock's, eyes searching his.

_No, it's-it's okay. Let him do what he wants. _

_He's entitled. _

_I killed his wife._

Except it wasn't Mary that Sherlock killed. He couldn't predict that Mary would jump in front of a bullet. He couldn't prevent it from happening.

But Sherlock did kill John's spouse. One, that at the time wasn't one, but one with whom John could picture spending the rest of his life. He could imagine themselves growing old together, running all over London, all over the country. Solving cases, chasing criminals, laughing in inappropriate places over stuff only they could understand.

Sherlock killed himself and even over two years since he returned John couldn't bring himself to forgive him for that. So it was easy to say it.

_Yes, you did._

But Sherlock forgave him leaving him for someone else and beating him into a bloody pulp. He continued to put John, his safety and what he perceived as his happiness first. Always.

How many times can a heart be shattered and still be pieced back together? How many times before the damage is irreparable? When comes the point when the love and devotion turns into resentment or indifference?

Now, he realises and he closes his eyes. If you will walk away from this room now you will most certainly lose him forever.

He takes another deep breath and opens his eyes as he slowly licks his lips, stepping closer to Sherlock.

He clears his throat.

Stop stalling Watson. Just say it.

But how? What sort of words he should use to make it abundantly clear to Sherlock that he was and still is the love of his goddamn life.

Then it comes to him. So he tries again.

He takes a deep breath and looks into Sherlock's eyes, open wide and unblinking. Steeling himself for the blow he believes is coming…

So John opens his mouth and he knows what he should say.

"Sherlock," he pauses and draws another deep breath, "there's something ..." another pause, "I should say; I-I've meant to say always and then I never have," he pauses again and draws another deep breath. " I might as well say it now," another pause and a deliberate one. "Hamish is actually a girl's name," he finishes.

Sherlock blinks and out of his mouth flies, "No, it's not."

"It was worth a try," John smiles as he slowly reaches with his hands for Sherlock's. "I think that it could work," he adds as his fingers curl around Sherlock's palms. "Sherlock Watson," he whispers softly.

"John," Sherlock breaths out. "I don't… I don't understand."

"I know," sighs John as looks down at their joined hands as he raises them up to their heart levels. "I made it abundantly clear to you before," he grimaces. "I lied. To you. To the world. But above all, I kept lying to myself that from the very moment I met you, you haven't become the most important person in my life. That you still are," he pauses and looks up into Sherlock's eyes. "I love you. I love you, Sherlock," he whispers. "And if you let me I will spend the rest of my life at proving it to you," he adds even more softly. Then, barely audible even to his own ears he adds, "My love."

Sherlock blinks, not a singular blink but several times in a rapid succession before his knees suddenly buckle and he starts falling. But this time, unlike the last one, John is there to catch him before he hits the floor.

He catches him and pulls him towards the bed. Just far enough so they can both sit on it before he pulls Sherlock closer and Sherlock just collapses into him, shoulders shaking, head wedged underneath John's chin as his hands fist themselves into the fabric of John's shirt where it meets with his trousers.

It doesn't take long for the moisture of Sherlock's tears to penetrate the fabric of John's shirt and instinctively John's arm tighten around Sherlock's shoulders. It's not a reaction he expected but he does understand it.

Oh, my love, how tightly you kept it locked at the bottom of your heart believing that you will never ever have a chance to have it. Not even allowing yourself to even hope for it. Saving the words of your love until the final farewell but covering the love confession with a joke because you couldn't bring yourself to say it.

"My love," whispers John into Sherlock's hair, allowing his hands to rub hopefully comforting circles over Sherlock's back while Sherlock wraps his arms around John's middle. "My love," he repeats rubbing his chin gently against Sherlock's chair as he gently starts swaying them gently from side to side. "My love," he whispers before he presses a soft kiss into Sherlock's hair, smelling minty scent of John's own shower gel which Sherlock used this morning to wash his hair. "It's okay, my love."

"It's not okay," mumbles Sherlock into John's shirt.

John sighs and whispers, "No. But it is what it is."

The pauses to take a deep breath and then whispers, "It is nonsense, says reason. It is what it is, says love. It is calamity, says calculation. It is nothing but pain, says fear. It is hopeless, says insight. It is what it is says love. It is ludicrous, says pride. It is foolish, says caution. It is impossible says experience It is what it is, says love."

Sherlock's shoulders start shaking even harder.

"My love," he says softly, he's still rubbing Sherlock's shoulders as he does. "My love. Sherlock, my dearest love. It's okay, my love, it's okay."

**Sherlock**

_My love. _

_My love. _

_Sherlock, my dearest love. _

_It's okay, my love, it's okay._

_I love you._

_I love you, Sherlock._

_And if you let me I will spend the rest of my life at proving it to you, my love._

_My love._

_My love._

_Sherlock, my love._

He has to be dreaming it or imagining it. John confessed his love to him.

It can't be real. John loves him, he knows this much, as a dear friend but not as a lover. He just can't. John's friendship is all that he has and the most he's allowed to have. He can't have John's love, he can't.

Maybe in a different universe, one in which he didn't take a head dive from a tall building and left John alone with his grief for over two years he would be allowed to have more of John's love. But not here.

It has to be a dream. A hallucination caused by the mixture of chemicals that affect neurotransmitters and are messing with his head. His heart is trying to beat out of his chest and he can barely breath. Perhaps he's having a heart-attack. A massive one because he did screwed himself over with the amount of drugs he took in the past few weeks.

Maybe he's dying.

"I love you," John whispers into his hair.

Perhaps he is, but it's such a blissful way to go. One through which he's accompanied by John's love. He's dying in the arms of a man he loves and as much as it hurts that he's leaving John he can't remember feeling more happier than this.

John loves him. For this brief moment before everything will fade around him John loves him.

It's a pity that he has to die, that he won't see Josie growing up, like he didn't get a chance to see Daisy. But John will take care of Josie for him, he will tell her stories about him, he will tell her the tale of her mother's bravery and what kind of an idiot her grandfather sometimes was. She will be fine. Katie will be fine. John will be fine, eventually. When Sherlock died for the first time he was alone but he's not alone now. He will have Katie and Josie and with Josie will come Mummy and Daddy, Hudders too, they won't let John fall again into overwhelming grief…

"I love you, Sherlock," says John. "I love you. You were my whole world, you still are and you always will be. I will spend the rest of my life at proving it to you that you are worth it," he pauses. "You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known and you still are. You deserve the world, Sherlock, you deserve happiness, you deserve your dreams becoming true. It's just me who's utterly unworthy of you…"

It cannot be. He's dying, it's his death and he doesn't want John to put himself down while he does. It's his dying hallucination and he wants it to go without it.

Fuck it.

"You were mine too," Sherlock whispers. "I didn't plan for it," he admits. "One day you were handing me your phone, the next you killed a man for me and before I realised what happened you became the centre of my world, John. Such integral part of me that I could barely remember myself from before meeting you. Your mere presence in my life changed me. Made me a better man. No one ever before made me wish to become the man they thought I was. But you had. I love you too," he sniffles. "I love you more that life itself," he sighs. "It's a pity that I'm only allowed to have this now."

"What do you mean?" John asks softly.

"I'm dying, John," sighs Sherlock.

John's reaction is nearly immediate. His hands leave Sherlock's back and moving to straighten him up.

Sherlock immediately grieves the loss but he allows John to pull him upright. At least now he can look into John's eyes. John has such a beautiful eyes and if Sherlock could be allowed he would spend the rest of his life gazing in them. It's not that he has a lot of it left anyway.

John's right hand steadies his shoulder, keeping him upright while John's left hand goes to Sherlock's carotid artery. He's taking Sherlock's pulse and he's frowning.

"Your pulse is elevated but not drastically," says John softly. "What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asks in concern as he looks into Sherlock's eyes. "Are you hurting?"

"No, I'm not," sighs Sherlock. "But this can't be real, John. It just can't. So the only explanation I have is that I'm dying."

John takes a deep breath and presses their foreheads together. His right arm is still resting on Sherlock's left shoulder while his left hand cups Sherlock's chin.

"You're dying and I'm in love with an idiot," John breaths out. "But you're my idiot, my love," he adds fondly as his right hand slide down Sherlock's arm, making Sherlock shudder, until his palm rests over Sherlock's and his fingers slide under Sherlock's long-sleeved undershirt as his left hand slides from underneath his chin towards the back of Sherlock's neck.

Then unthinkable happens. John's thumb and forefinger pinch Sherlock's forearm a little above the wrists. Hard.

"Ouch," Sherlock yelps as he attempts to pull away from John but John's hand on his neck is holding him firmly in place. "What that was for?"

"Reality check," whispers John.

What?!

"If you're dying then so am I," adds John. "And I know that I'm not. Trust me, Sherlock, I'm a doctor."

What the hell?

"I know that you are," says Sherlock feeling utterly confused.

"Are you with me now?" asks John fondly.

"Yes," answers Sherlock unsurely. "Am I?" he asks John. "John?"

"Oh, Sherlock, my love," exhales John as he tilts his head and Sherlock can smell tea on his breath.

He breaths it out against Sherlock's lips millisecond before his lips press against Sherlock's and then it hits Sherlock. If this wasn't real he wouldn't be able to smell John but he does. Tea, minty shampoo and just a hint of John's generic aftershave.

It's real. John mouth is pressed against Sherlock's lips and he's kissing him. John is kissing him which means that…

_My love._

_I love you, Sherlock._

_My love._

… it's real. John loves him, John is in love with him. John. Is. In. Love. With. Him.

He can have this. He can have John as his lover. He can have John's love and he can openly show his love for John.

So he presses his lips against John a little firmer, puckering up to draw John's bottom lip between his. John tastes like tea and cheese sandwich, like home, like eternity he's now allowed to have.

It feels like death followed by a swift resurrection because John loves him. John's mouth is moving against his, John's tongue is flicking gently against his lips, delving deeper in Sherlock's mouth.

Pulling away.

No, he cannot allow it. He chases John's lips with his stopping only when John mouths something against his lips.

_My love._

"My love," Sherlock echoes. "My John, my love," he mumbles against John's lips. "I love you, my love."

"I know," whispers John against his lips and he smiles into the kiss.

There's something in there but he can ask John about it later, it can wait. This cannot.

So he lets his hand reach for John's face as he leans forward because he wants to bury himself into John. Into the warmth and light and peace that John is to him. His love, his John, his perfect John. His other half, his partner, his best friend, his lover, his John.

His head begins to swim and reluctantly he pulls away from John because he doesn't want to faint. If he had, he would be missing this wonder that's kissing John.

They breath against each other, their foreheads are pressed together, arms wrapped tightly around each other.

This is heaven. Not that he believes in God. But there has to be some metaphorical place of utter happiness and joy that one can access in moments like this.

Perhaps that's why it just slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself, "Marry me."

As soon as it leaves his mouth he wants to kick himself in the head or maybe stuff his foot into his mouth for not having control over it. People don't do that, they don't confess their love for one another on nearly the same breath as they ask their loved ones for spending the rest of their lives with them.

_Idiot._

"Oh, God, yes," John breaths fervently against his lips before he surges forward.

They tumble backwards on the bed, with John above him. Something tumbles on the floor too, he has no idea what and doesn't really care.

It's not exactly the most comfortable position because their legs are dangling over the edge of the bed at a weird angle, Sherlock's at the very least do. He quickly rectifies it though, pulling himself higher towards the middle of the bed. John follows suit, with his mouth and his body, pressing Sherlock against the mattress.

He was wrong earlier because this is heaven. John on top of him, a solid, comforting weight all over his body and the exquisite feeling of John's penis against his own, even though the restraining fabric of two pairs of trousers.

John kisses his lips, his cheeks, kissing away the traces of tears. His hands roam all over Sherlock's body, from his knees, up his torso to his arms and face and into his hair.

Sherlock feels drunk on love and pleasure because John is where Sherlock always wanted him to be, with him and he loves him so much that his heart might break into pieces.

Then the benediction comes against the side of his left ear.

"My love," John whispers into it.

"My love," Sherlock echoes. "My John, my love."

"Oh, my love," John sighs against the place where Sherlock's jaw meets his ear. "My brilliant, beautiful, precious love," he kisses the same place again.


	12. Chapter 12

_It is not sex that gives the pleasure, but the lover._

_~Marge Piercy_

**Sherlock**

It comes to him in the sudden burst of clarity in the exact moment when John's left hand wraps itself against their joined pricks and simply tugs. He practically screams into John's mouth, that's blessedly kissing him when it happens and then he just wants to weep. Out of sudden relief and overwhelming shame.

He can't bring himself to look at John's face. So, as soon as he removes his mouth from John's, he tucks his face into a juncture between John's neck and shoulder.

Three seconds. That's all that it took. Like a pubescent boy. Simply wonderful.

He doesn't remember the last time he came so fast, not since he was twelve years old or maybe eighteen… although that time cannot exactly count. He used to have control over his body. Iron control on that. What the hell that was supposed to be?

He's still shuddering through the aftershocks of the climax, half-basking in everything that's John and half-dreading John's reaction.

Because John likes sex, John is very good at sex and he enjoys good sex. For their first time John deserves a night he will never forget and what he's got instead? Premature ejaculation. Wonder-fucking-ful. Great job, Sherlock Holmes, absolutely great job. And you didn't even make it to being properly undressed. What's next? Coming in pants at the gentlest of breezes?

At the very least John is still willing to touch him even if Sherlock is a very lousy lover. John's arms are around his shoulders, hands running over his back and he's nuzzling Sherlock's hair. It's so nice that it makes him both deliriously happy and mortified with shame. He should do better.

"Sherlock?" John whispers into his hair. "My love."

"I'll do better," Sherlock mumbles into John's shoulder. "I swear."

"Oh," John breaths out.

He starts tugging at Sherlock's arms and shoulders to make Sherlock look at him. Sherlock can't let him because he can't stand the idea of seeing John's disappointment in him. So, he clings to John even harder, allowing his legs to tangle with John's, covering John from neck down with his body.

After a few more gentle tugs John lets Sherlock settle the way he wants and what he wants is to burrow himself into John until he will become John and John will become him.

"You don't have to do better," says John into Sherlock's hair. "You don't even have to do anything at all, if that's something you don't want to do."

"I want to do everything with you," Sherlock admits earnestly.

I want to fall asleep with your arms around me. I want to wake up with your heartbeat under my ear. I want you in my bed or myself in your bed. I'm not going to be picky about such trivialities like a mattress if only I get to fall asleep with you. I want to cook with you, slow and leisure meals just as much as hurried ones before you have to leave for work. I want our routines, old and new and those that will evolve from both.

But above all else I want to grow old with you, living through each day as if it was the last one I get to spend with you and our little girls. I want to see them grow up. I want to see how they evolve from competitive toddlers into headstrong, intelligent and beautiful young women. I want to see them happy and at peace with themselves. I want to see you reading our adventures to their children, if they will have any.

I want an eternity with you, for as long as our bodies would allow it and when the end comes I want us to go together so neither of us will be subjected to spending the rest of his life without the other.

"I want it too," says John softly. "I want everything with you," he adds as he plays with fingers of Sherlock's left hand.

John's thumb and forefinger circle Sherlock's left ring finger gently and Sherlock at the same time wants to weep and look John in the eyes. Instead he goes for neither and wraps his own fingers over John's ring finger – as of today, after far too long, finally empty, but not for long if he has something to say about it.

"You meant it," he whispers into John's shoulder as he looks at their joined hands, the question still hanging in the air even though John said yes.

"Did I ever said yes to something I didn't mean?" asks John with a soft chuckle.

"According to you, yes," says Sherlock.

"It wasn't that easy," John says with a sigh. "That alone should have given me a clue," he snorts. "But then again it was easy when it shouldn't be," he adds pensively. "That too should have given me a clue."

"You're making no sense whatsoever," mutters Sherlock as he finally raises his head to look at John. "What should have been easy when it was hard and what should have been hard when it was easy?"

Instead of answering John rolls them so Sherlock is lying on his back with John's comforting weight over him and pushing him into the mattress. John's soft weight. How did he missed it?

"You aren't hard," Sherlock realises.

"Brilliant deduction," John chuckles before he places a gentle, too gentle, kiss on left side of Sherlock's neck. "Happened when I was watching the most gorgeous man I ever know fall apart in my arms at the slightest of touch," he murmurs before he presses another kiss into the same spot, a little harder this time. "I bet that I could make you come just by looking at you," he adds and nips the spot.

Too fucking right, he could do that. Side effect of him having a very active imagination and John knows that. John could just sit there and without as much as putting a single finger on Sherlock he could make him come on the spot.

"Not…" starts Sherlock but John distracts him with a long lick from his jugular right to the tip of his earlobe, "bloody fair," he finishes, panting.

"Who says that I should be?" chuckles John.

"I do," hums Sherlock. "Because I can and will pay you back in kind," he murmurs into John's forehead. "I'm a former sex worker with practically non-existent gag reflex and no shame. I can keep you on the brink of orgasm for hours on end or I can make you come under three minutes."

John groans into Sherlock's throat and mutters, "Bloody refractory period."

"Does that mean that we have between another ten to twenty minutes?" asks Sherlock curiously.

"Of course you were timing it," John groans. "Might take a longer than that," he sighs and presses a kiss to Sherlock's earlobe.

"Speaking from experience?" whispers Sherlock.

John nods before he changes his focus on the sides of Sherlock's throat from left to right and for a few minutes Sherlock completely loses the plot.

Eventually, he returns to his senses only to find himself divested of his shoes and socks. A slide of his foot over John's legs reveals that John too is missing both his shoes and socks. Their shirts and undershirts are untucked and in John's case open and pushed down his shoulders.

Regrettably they aren't hard which is a bloody shame and annoying as fuck.

"So what should have been easy when it was hard and what should have been hard when it was easy?" he asks John as he completely divests him of his shirts.

In response John rolls them over so Sherlock is lying on top of him, with his head pillowed on John's left, scarred shoulder and he cannot resist turning his face towards and pressing his lips to it.

The 9mm that nearly killed John. The same 9mm that brought John to him.

But he doesn't have too much time to ponder on that because in rapid succession he loses both his shirt and undershirt. Then John once again rolls them over so Sherlock is lying on his back and John slides down just enough so his lips press against the scar on Sherlock's chest.

"Words," whispers John into Sherlock's chest, his hands are skittering over Sherlock's sides. "Words should have been easy. After all you are just asking your best friend, your partner to spend the rest of their lives with you. It's not exactly a rocket science. It shouldn't be hard to come with the right words to express it," he pauses. "But when the push came to shove I just couldn't get it out of my mouth."

"That's why I like direct approach," says Sherlock, running his hands over John's shoulders.

"Then there was the ring itself," sighs John. "Saw it day after I decided to propose in a window display of a pawnshop while I was waiting for the bus. It was the very first thing that didn't scream cheap choice for a broke man and that looked like something Mary might like."

"It's not really a bad thing," murmurs Sherlock. "When you know, you just know," he sighs.

"I didn't," John admits. "I wasn't sure. It was just something I thought might work and I was simply relieved that it took me just that long to find it. I can still remember the never ending stream of jewellery and pawn shops that I visited with Harry and Clara in search of their perfect rings. It wouldn't have been so bad if we all went together since they both wanted to have rings but no, I had to visit nearly every single store twice with two women that looked very unlike each other."

"Oh," exhales Sherlock. "You poor thing, the attendants though that you were stringing them both along."

"It wasn't all that bad," chuckles John. "Especially with men or when I was with Harry. As long as someone didn't start commenting on how nice it was of her to help her brother pick up the right ring," he mumbles into Sherlock's chest.

Are you going to ask her this time? Should you ask her this time? What do you want to do this time around, John? What do I want?

The last question is the easiest to answer. He knows what he doesn't want.

"John," he starts softly.

"Yeah," hums John as he raises his head to look Sherlock in the eyes.

"I don't like jewels," Sherlock breaths out.

"I know," says John with a fond smile. "All your cuffs have buttons and the only time I ever seen you wearing a tie someone almost died and you managed to get by without a tie-pin."

"About that…" starts Sherlock.

"No ties unless you want them," says John.

"Thank God," breaths out Sherlock.

"And no engagement rings either," adds John quickly.

"Agreed," nods Sherlock. "I hate unnecessary jewellery and you as a pragmatic don't need unnecessary jewellery."

"Are wedding rings unnecessary?" murmurs John before he kisses Sherlock's chest.

"Of course they're necessary," says Sherlock earnestly.

"You don't like jewellery," John points out softly.

"Wedding rings aren't jewellery," sighs Sherlock. "They're a physical manifestation of the vows that bind one to their partner. They're a visible sign of mutual and eternal commitment to each other," he adds earnestly.

"Isn't a wedding supposed to be nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world?" asks John with a glint in his eye.

Oh, you cock, Sherlock thinks. Using my own words to call me a hypocrite. Ingenious.

"Not our own," he murmurs.

"Of course not, my closeted romantic," mumbles John.

"I'm not a closeted romantic," huffs Sherlock. "Just non compos mentis when it comes to a certain army doctor. Complete lunatic. Mad as March hare of a bloody hatter," he adds fondly. "Utterly barmy. Insanely devoted and disgustingly in love."

"Like I said," chuckles John before he licks and nips on Sherlock's left nipple.

And suddenly Sherlock finds himself completely interested in the proceedings, from head to toe and this time he's not planning to lose it over the slightest of touches from John.

He knows what he wants and he wants it to happen here. It's not technically his childhood bed. It's not even the first adult bed he got here (that one was awesome and very sturdy but unfortunately had a lot of places to hide drugs so it had to go). Quite frankly, he hates it. It's old and slightly wobbly. It's also the only metal bed in the entire house and as such instead of proper frame underneath it holds itself together on springs. Springs, in 21st century. Plus, whenever he sleeps in it he always manages to stub at least one his toes on the railings at least once during the night if not more. The only saving grace of the disgrace that's his old bed is the mattress, which is decent enough, mostly because with him hardly ever visiting his bedroom is treated like another guest bedroom.

He wants to defile it. At the same time he wants to reclaim all of his firsts. He wants to surrender his body to John the same way he surrendered to John his mind and his heart over the years. The first kiss he already got back.

John is asking him something but Sherlock is having a hard time pulling himself from the fog of his lust.

"What?" he hums.

"Watch," says John.

"I'm watching," murmurs Sherlock.

"I know that you do," chuckles John. "But that's not exactly what I meant," he adds before he presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I meant, you wear watches."

Oh, Sherlock realises.

"So do you," he sighs contently. "Engagement watches instead of rings. Truly ingenious. I've just seen one that…" John interrupts him with a kiss.

"Please, Sherlock," John murmurs. "I already have a great one."

"A good one, not a great one," Sherlock disagrees. "I didn't want to outdo Mary's gift."

"Well, you had because I never went to that bloody SPA thing and I'm not sure if that voucher is still valid," snorts John softly. "Probably not, I don't really care. The watch however is gorgeous."

"Could be better," murmurs Sherlock.

"I don't want better," John murmurs back. "I want what I already have. If you really want to make a big deal out of it make it for my fiftieth birthday."

"But that's so far away," groans Sherlock. "Plus, it's not bloody fair that you get to shop for one and I don't."

"I don't," whispers John. "I already found one that's perfect, I just need to get it engraved."

"Why?" Sherlock whispers in return.

"Because there are words I need you to see every day. Especially if for some reason I won't be able to tell them to you personally every day," says John softly. "Hopefully, we won't have many days like that but if they happen I want you to have something that will remind you how much you mean to me, Sherlock."

"I don't want to spend even a single day without you," admits Sherlock earnestly.

"Neither do I," sighs John softly. "But unless you're planning to attend every occasional medical conference with me or really putting both of your feet down about not working alone you might consider that days like that will happen from time to time."

Sherlock hums. He knows what he wants to engrave on John's watch, just as he knows that temporarily relieving John from it won't be very hard.

But engagement watches, wedding rings and plans for the wedding itself can wait at least until the morning because now it's time for proper buggery. Granted, it's not the best of times, if it was Katie and Josie would be in one of the other rooms rather than in the same one with them but at the moment nothing short of a fire alarm would get him to leave the room and the bed he's sharing with John.

"You're kidding me," John groans into Sherlock's ear. "Here and now?"

"Preferably," says Sherlock with a sheepish smile.

"You're serious," John mumbles.

"I'm desperate," Sherlock corrects him earnestly.

"Never mind your dad downstairs, because at the very least he suspects what we might be up to but the girls…" John whispers.

"Are sleeping soundly," points out Sherlock. "And I will be quiet."

"I don't want you to be quiet," murmurs John.

"Wait until we're back home and there's an entire floor between us and the girls and I will show you how loud I can get," whispers Sherlock sultry.

**John**

He has no shame or even a shred of common decency nor a hint of self-reproach about having sex in the same room in which their little girls are sleeping.

He knows that he's a bloody hypocrite for even considering the idea. Especially after he repeatedly told Mary: no; claiming that nothing will happen as long as their daughter was still sleeping in their bedroom. It's not even a Mary thing. It happened before.

Once upon a time there was a specific period in his dating life when he didn't mind sleeping with single mothers, parents really. He didn't even mind knowing that their children were sleeping in the other rooms (not that it happened often). Occasionally, sex was memorable or at least good enough for him to not leave the bed until morning. And on those occasions several times he had a chance to cook breakfast for the three or four of them. Sometimes he ended up playing computer games with the boys. Sometimes he helped the girls with braiding their hair. Sometimes he got asked a question or two about homework. He didn't really mind.

One of the best weekends of his life prior to meeting Sherlock? Weekend with Sammy and her twins. Sammy herself wasn't a bad shag, although he had better ones but she was good enough to spend the night. But the twins? They were amazing, curious and full of ideas and definitely missing a father figure in their lives to include him in their games. For about a day and a half after that weekend he considered coming back to Sammy until towards the evening of the next day he reached a conclusion that it wouldn't be a right thing to do.

But then came what's her name… A single mother of a six months old boy who lived in a studio apartment above a pub. He picked her up while she was picking up her food and they had such great time talking that she invited him upstairs. Talking and snogging went without a problem at least until the kid didn't require changing. That was when things started to go awkward.

He really didn't mind kids in the flats of his dates. He could keep quiet enough to not wake them. But having sex in the very same room with the actual baby?

He wasn't an idiot. He knew that sometimes one's living situation wasn't ideal but that wasn't a reason to keep one from having sex. He also knew that for a while after they got married and had him his parents lived in a tiny studio apartment. They still lived in it until about a year after Harry was born. Ergo, they had to have sex with him still in the room.

He knew that. He also knew that the boy was too small to even consider the sounds of his mother having sex as something potentially traumatic rather than simply strange. But he couldn't do it. He tried, but with one ear concentrated on his partner and the other on the breathing pattern of her son, somewhere in the middle of the foreplay his prick completely lost interest in the proceedings.

Here and now with Sherlock underneath him, with Sherlock's arms around him and Sherlock's erection pressing insistently against his own answering hardness (which took its sweet bloody time to return after the surprising climax of the shortest handjobs he ever had) all he can think of, aside of Sherlock, with some degree of clarity, is the bottle of baby oil in the diaper-bag.

For God's sake, they don't even have condoms. They should use them. Sherlock just recently got out of hospital after an extended drug binge that nearly killed him. But he also knows that if there's something Sherlock always had been paranoid about even while high it's clean needles. He had seen the results of Sherlock's blood tests. He even insisted on having Sherlock regularly tested because Sherlock very often worked with blood. He knows that Sherlock is clean.

He also knows that he is clean too. He double checked. Once, after Mary shot Sherlock and then after Katie was born. STDs weren't the only things he checked back then, but they were the only tests he later didn't feel bad about. Unlike the paternity test, that one kept him awake at nights for weeks and not only due to uncertainty of the results before they arrived but also afterwards, due to their certainty.

There was a time when he felt like a monster, for feeling disappointed in the fact that his daughter was his daughter. His life would have been easier if she wasn't, if he could throw into his wife's face along with nearly killing his best friend her infidelity and a tangible proof of it. Without his daughter, he stood a chance in safely walking away from his marriage and his wife. With her, he wasn't certain if he could even try to do it, not until Mary pulled a runner, until he was back at home at Baker Street and his daughter was safely wrapped in her godfather's arms.

He has them both, he realises. He has them both, and Josie too and they're all safe from Mary. Sure, Josie and Katie will grow up without their mothers but as certain as he is about keeping the memory of Daisy alive, he's also sure that he will bury his late wife under an avalanche of her own sins from under which his daughter will never pull her out.

She won't even have to try. She will grow up loved, with two devoted fathers and an adoptive sister, who at some point will stop being a competition and will become a best friend and a trusted companion. They will have dotting grandparents (at the moment a grandfather for certain) and Mrs Hudson (because making her Katie's godmother was the only legal way he could think of that could make Mrs H Katie's family). They will also have their Aunt Harry and Uncle Mycroft… or not. That would depend from Harry's willingness to finally maintain contact with him and Mycroft's continued survival.

All of this goes through his head as kisses the wonderful, gorgeous man underneath him. His best friend, his fiancé, his partner, his better half.

Kissing Sherlock is like finding an oasis in the desert after days, weeks, months even, of wandering through it. He's home, home which he found in Sherlock in the very moment Sherlock asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Because while he didn't even know Sherlock's name at the time he knew instantly that he wanted to learn more about this fascinating and attractive man.

And after nearly six years Sherlock is finally his. Just like he's Sherlock's. He understands Sherlock's desire now, it's less about the sex itself and more about everything coming full circle. The tangible proof of words they shared with each other being real.

Suddenly, he wants to bury himself into Sherlock's body and to never climb out of it. He wants to spend eternity with Sherlock, to become one, for their breaths to sync. To feel, to touch, to love.

Dragging himself away from Sherlock isn't an easy task. Sherlock protests their separation as much as John's own body does. But they need lube and to get the bottle of baby oil he really has to leave the bed.

On his way to the bag he loses the rest of his clothes and when he turns around to face Sherlock with the bottle in his left hand he nearly drops it to the floor.

Sherlock looks like a picture of temptation. Pale skin with a slight flush, leaning back on his elbows, his cock jutting out proudly.

John wants to consume him completely and at the same time wants to get that delightful cock into his ass because it had been far too long.

"Maybe tomorrow," murmurs Sherlock sultry. "Now, it's my turn…"

**Sherlock**

If there is a better feeling than having John Watson's cock buried to the hilt inside his ass, he doesn't know it but if he does, he really doesn't care about anything else. A rivalling feeling to it is knowing that said John Watson in question is not only buried to the hilt of his cock inside his ass but is also his fiancé, his partner and his one and only.

"Are you comfortable?" asks John softly as he pushes Sherlock's hair out of his face.

"Am I?" Sherlock mumbles as he attempts to wriggle his ass.

The tip of John's cock brushes against the edge of Sherlock's prostate and while he tries his best not to groan, he cannot resist purring at the feeling. Yep, he's definitely comfortable and he can keep going like this for the entire night.

"Christ, Sherlock," John groans. "I'm on the wrong side of forty and I already came twice today."

"I have faith in you," murmurs Sherlock into John's ear.

"Of course you do," chuckles John. "Your ass is still on my prick."

"Not good?" purrs Sherlock.

"I didn't say that," whispers John.

"Probably it isn't," admits Sherlock with a sigh. "Can't help liking it though," he murmurs as he burrows his face in John's shoulder.

"I'm not complaining," murmurs John as rolls his hips slightly.

"Neither am I," purrs Sherlock as he wriggles his own.

Then he yawns. Fuck. He yawns. In the middle of sex with John. Granted, all the movements they're making are small and slow but sex is sex.

"Do you want to have a nap?" chuckles John.

"Only if I won't have to bloody move," snorts Sherlock. "I could use a half of hour or so, as would you."

"You're insatiable," says John fondly. "My gorgeous, horny detective."

"About ten years of abstinence with the occasional exception of my own hand can do that," murmurs Sherlock.

"Just your hand?" asks John.

"Not always," Sherlock murmurs. "But with you and Mrs Hudson constantly ruffling through my stuff I'm surprised that you never had a chance to come across my occasional companion," he adds fondly. "Our lives could have been much easier if you had," he quips.

"How far off are the measurements of your occasional companion from the real thing?" asks John and makes a particular roll with his hips that has Sherlock seeing stars.

"You're jealous about a dildo," mumbles Sherlock.

"Can't help it," murmurs John.

"You don't have to be," says Sherlock fondly. "You're far more fulfilling, Doctor Watson. In length as much as girth," he chuckles.

"You size queen," says John fondly.

"Am I?" whispers Sherlock sultry. "I've seen how you looked at my cock and in your near future I can see a very thorough, hands off prostrate examination that will make you beg for being fucked right into the mattress," he adds before licking John's ear. "Don't worry, I will deliver."

"Oh God," whimpers John.

"Sherlock," quips Sherlock.

"Arse," mumbles John. "My arse though," he chuckles.

There's no third time. They're both too exhausted for more than trying to stay connected and even that at some point becomes hard (or more precisely soft). They keep squabbling though for as long as they can though. Until John's breathing slows down enough to mingle with Josie's and Katie's (who blessedly slept through the entire thing).

Sherlock tries to fight it for few more minutes, basking in the wonder he found himself part of because John loves him and John agreed to spend the rest of his life with him. But eventually, he too succumbs to the lure of sleep.

Few minutes later his phone that's lying on the floor, lights up and starts to vibrate but he doesn't hear and doesn't see that. Wouldn't probably bother to pick it up if he did see or hear it.

The phone keeps ringing for few more minutes until, inevitably, after an entire day spent on it the battery finally dies.


	13. Chapter 13

_Happiness is having a dream you cannot let go of and a partner who would never ask you to._

_~Robert Brault_

**Sherlock**

He wakes up slowly. It's not one of those days when awareness of his surroundings comes quickly to him. At least until his brain decides to register that pillows aren't supposed to be bony and that he usually sleeps alone but he's not alone now.

He opens his eyes and decides that he must be high because John is lying in bed with him. John's right arm is wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders and his left hand is holding onto Sherlock's right hand.

Except, he doesn't feel high, at least not high in an artificial manner. He feels completely blissed out, ridiculously happy and unrestrained. Because the arm over his shoulders feels real, the taut stomach underneath his own arm feels solid, as does the hand that's holding his.

If he's high then he doesn't want to come down yet. And if he isn't…

No, he's got to be high because there's no world in which John Watson would have climbed into the same bed with him, naked. No world, in which he would have confessed his love to Sherlock. There isn't also a world in which John would say yes to Sherlock's proposal.

He should have said something when he had a chance. In the moment he came the closest to having a chance with John. At the time when John's tight and aggressive control over his heterosexuality became the most frayed. When all he needed instead of picking up his violin or not putting it down after playing '_Auld Lang Syne'_ was sitting John down to tell him that Irene Adler never had a chance and telling him why.

If only he had been a little bit braver back then, a little more willing to risk everything that had been between him and John for a chance at something more. Except back then, he already knew what lied ahead of him and he couldn't do this to John. Just like he couldn't risk their friendship for a meaningless shag, not that it would actually be meaningless.

But he kept hoping. He promised himself that he would make it back to John and that they would pick everything up where they left it. There would be no Moriarty to hang over their heads or no threats that Mycroft wouldn't be able to neutralise on his own. He eventually made his way back to John but it was already too late, at least six months in not more too late. If only he had given up on Serbia…

If he gave up on Serbia, then he would have make it back home for John's forty-second birthday and he would have about a week to ten days of a head start before John would met Mary. He would make a better and more sensitive job out of revealing himself to John and could go straight for begging John on his knees for his forgiveness.

But this illusion before him is pleasant enough to make him want to bask in its artificial fakeness. Because he desperately wants it. He physically aches for it. He prays for it in the darkest hours.

What he wouldn't give for a chance to stand with John in the church, even if he doesn't believe in God and finds the entire concept of a religion ridiculous.

What he wouldn't give for a chance to say to John:

_I, Sherlock, take you John, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish; from this day forward until death do us part._

What he wouldn't give for a chance to hear John say it back to him…

John's friendship is enough, on most days, because having just this much is more than having nothing.

What a pleasant illusion, he thinks and he burrows closer. Except, the pillow under his head stays bony like the shoulder that shouldn't be there because there's no way that John would climb into the same bed with him, naked.

Is he naked?

Carefully he disentangles his right hand from John and raises the covers. A smattering of hair runs down to John's half-erect cock, a sight which makes Sherlock's mouth water. His own cock, is also half-erect, rubbing against John's leg and getting harder with each rub.

That's when he becomes aware of the soreness of his ass. It's not this 'I got kicked in the ass and now my butt hurts' kind of feeling. But it's also familiar feeling, if a little more distant than the other.

The feeling of being stretched out and fingered to the brink of frustration. The press of hips against his arse, cock buried as deep as it can reach. Not all of them are as distant as they should be.

He drops the covers and reaches behind himself. It takes him a moment to get down to his anus because on the way he encounters places where John had to grip his hips and he almost moans at the feeling. Soon enough though he gets down there and rubs at his entrance. He doesn't need to smell it to know that it's covered in a mixture of baby oil and dried semen.

He had sex with John. John's cock was in his arse and had stayed there after the orgasm, just like Sherlock usually likes it. He was always extremely fond of the feeling of softening prick in his arse.

And if the sex part is real then rest of it has to be true too. John told him that he loved him and had accepted Sherlock's blurted out proposal.

It was real last night and this is also real.

He's in John's arms, where he belongs, with his fiancé, in his childhood bedroom morning after they had…

They weren't exactly alone last night and the light of the room is getting a little too bright for Katie and Josie to still be sleeping.

"Your Dad had been here some time ago," murmurs John sleepily as he turns slightly towards Sherlock. "Took them out and away, caught him closing the door."

"And you let him?" murmurs Sherlock as he burrows closer.

"Well, he raised four kids so he can surely manage entertaining a pair of one year olds long enough for me to have a lie in with my gorgeous fiancé," whispers John. "Plus, I'm not going to look a gifted few minutes of bliss into the mouth when we could be doing something without presence of chaperones in the room," he adds with a chuckle.

"Mhm," hums Sherlock in agreement. "You or me?"

"As much as I would like a repeat of last night in a baby-free environment I want to avoid unnecessary trips to A&E," murmurs John. "Just bear in mind that it had been a very long while since the last time."

"How long?" asks Sherlock.

"Are you jealous?" chuckles John.

"You were jealous of a dildo," he points out.

"I was," John agrees. "I didn't say that I'm not a hypocrite," he says and hums. "Now get on with it."

"Such romanticism," snorts Sherlock in mock annoyance. "Get on with it. What I'm supposed to be a bull or a stallion one uses for breeding?" he mutters.

"No, you're world's greatest detective and also the guy who last used the lube so you can use your superb abilities to find it again," chuckles John.

Then he turns around that he's almost lying on his stomach, presenting his arse to Sherlock and Sherlock blinks. Once, twice, trice and then he gets on with it.

He finds the bottle of baby oil under the bed and he has no idea how it got there because it was right in the middle of the floor underneath the bed. He doesn't really care how it got there though. The only thing that matters is that he finally has it in his hands and that he can use it.

On John. To have sex with John. To put his cock inside John.

Jesus. It has to be a dream. But it doesn't feel like a dream.

He draws in a deep breath and just to make sure he pinches his tight.

John is still lying sprawled on the bed with his arse perked just high enough in the air to make it look like it isn't accidental. John Watson, you tease.

"Enjoying the view?" asks John with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Very," breaths out Sherlock.

"Planning to stand there for the rest of the morning?" asks John playfully.

"I might," answers Sherlock cheekily as he's trying very carefully to approach the bed. "After all, I have an excellent view," he adds as he kneels on the bed.

Once he's on the bed it doesn't take him long to lower himself over John's legs as he fixates his eyes on his prize. He licks his lips slowly before he allows his tongue to run from the edge of John's left buttock right into the centre.

His reward aside of the hopeful twitch of John's arsehole is a breathy and stifled moan coming from John. He smirks to himself and moves to John's right buttock to repeat the process.

He alternates between both globes without a specific rhyme or reason. Stretching and pulling them apart but staying away from the actual prize. Not because he doesn't want to, rimming John is one of his most favourite fantasies but good things come to those who wait and anticipation is part of the foreplay.

Instead, he licks and nips at the skin of John's buttocks, drinking in every sound from John. Every breathy moan, every mumbled 'brilliant', 'amazing' and 'evil sod'. The last one makes him smirk before clamps his teeth on John's left buttock hard enough to make him yelp.

He sooths the bite with his tongue before he licks his lips and pauses just long enough for a deep breath. He descends on his prize like seagull into the water in search of a fish. Licking and sucking on John's opening between trying to stab his tongue as far as he can into John's body.

From above John breaths out a stream of curses mixed with encouragements, groans with stifled moans that mingle into complete incoherency the longer Sherlock goes on. He does his best to bury his face inside John's arse even though he knows that it would be impossible to crawl inside John, no matter how much he wants to. He can certainly try.

He almost doesn't register it the first time he hears it, he's that far drunk on his desire for John. But it's loud enough for him to register it with some delay and his heart almost drops to his stomach and then to his feet.

John says, "Stop." In fact he keeps repeating it softly, "Please, stop, Sherlock."

So Sherlock does, nearly instantly.

"Did I…" Sherlock starts nervously.

"Oh, my love," whispers John. "You did nothing wrong," he assures him. "But as great as what you're doing is, I do want to come with your cock inside me. I love you, but three times within twelve hours is definitely a limit at my age," he adds between gasps for breath.

"We can always work on it later," concedes Sherlock before one last lick to John's hole. "How do you want it, my love?" he whispers against John's buttock.

"As often as you want and in any position you desire," whispers John. "Not really caring about who gets to top."

"You don't care about who gets to top?" asks Sherlock with a hum against John's buttock.

"Not with you," mumbles John. "Never with you, Sherlock. I want everything with you."

"Me too," whispers Sherlock. "I want everything with you too, John."

He gives John a few minutes to regain enough composure to not come in the very first minute he will start preparing him. He spends it on hounding the bottle of baby oil around the bed and rubbing his face against John's buttocks.

To be frank he could spend the rest of his life like this but he does know that the girls can be a handful and that at some point Daddy's patience with them will run out. He also knows that it would be the best for him and John to not be sexually frustrated when that would happen.

"How do you want it?" he whispers against John's buttock.

"I don't care," murmurs John. "Any position would do, really," he breaths out.

"Not helping," mutters Sherlock and he bites John's cheek in punishment.

"You will figure it out," mumbles John.

Oh, you cock, you bloody tease. That's why you presented yourself like that, Sherlock realises. Oh, it is on, he smirks to himself.

More precisely it's in, or it will be in once he will prepare John. Where that bottle of oil had went? It was just right there.

He finds the bottle again and starts preparing John. Gently at first, skittering with his forefinger against John's entrance. Every now and then dipping to swirl his fingers between John's balls but coming back to John's opening with more pressure and insistence and more oil. By the time he works his second finger into John's arse John is back to incoherent babbling, punctured with death threats over not getting on with it. Sherlock though takes his sweet time and waits until John is comfortable with three of Sherlock's fingers inside him before he even lubes himself.

Finally, he kneels between John's spread tights and rubs his cock over John's crack.

This is it, he thinks as he swallows.

"Waiting for an engraved invitation?" mumbles John breathlessly.

"Are you planning to issue one?" Sherlock quips.

"No, but if you won't move within ten seconds I will get you inside myself," murmurs John.

And just as he threatened his right hand sneaks underneath his body and begins searching for Sherlock's cock. Sherlock smiles and swats it away with it before he returns to rubbing himself against John's crack.

"You tease," mumbles John.

"I'm a tease?" whispers Sherlock. "I'm not the one who ended up with the arse in the air like a virginal offering to be worshiped. Not that I'm complaining," stringing all of the words into one coherent sentence takes a lot of effort from him but he manages.

"Of course you aren't," whimpers John. "Please, Sherlock, I'm dying here."

Sherlock chuckles but finally he lines himself up and gently pushes through the loosened enough circle of muscles. He keeps going at a snail's pace until he's balls deep inside John's arse.

It's such a heady and overwhelming feeling that has to lean over John to support himself on his right arm.

"Are you okay?" he whispers into John's ear.

"Never better," John whispers back. "Never better. You can move, love."

"I need a moment," mumbles Sherlock. "Or it will be over very fast."

"Okay," murmurs John as he turns his face to kiss Sherlock.

The kisses they trade are soft and languid unlike the desire to move but Sherlock knows that if he won't try to draw it out he will come under thirty seconds and that would be not good.

He draws it out with miniscule movements, searching for the right angle that makes John gasp because Sherlock managed to brush against his prostate. Once he knows that he's in the right place he continues to take his sweet, sweet time with John, trying to keep John from sneaking his hand around his prick while trying to kiss John's face rather than his shoulder.

Finally, he curls his own hand over John's on John's cock and starts jerking it in unison. It turns out to be a good thing because in the moment Sherlock's hand closes over John's, his mouth seeks Sherlock's. Within less than a minute John's arse constricts around his prick and John's come splatters over their joined hands. Together they trigger Sherlock's own orgasm which is hard enough for him to black out.

"Are you okay?" asks John softly when Sherlock comes back to his senses.

They're lying on their right sides, with Sherlock's soft cock still buried in John's arse. John's left arm is wrapped over Sherlock's own.

"I should…" breaths out Sherlock, "I should be asking you that."

"I wasn't the one that blacked out," murmurs John.

"Then we will have to repeat it," whispers Sherlock as rubs his hips against John.

"Oh, God," groans John. "Sherlock, you will literally kill me if you will try to make me come four times within twelve hours. I'm forty-five for Christ's sake," he protests weakly.

"Forty-four until nearly the end of April," mutters Sherlock. "But we can work on your stamina once we will return home," he adds before he presses a kiss to John's ear.

He cuddles up to John and shifts their arms until Sherlock's left hand is resting over John's.

He doesn't know when or where but hopefully quite soon the day will come when their joined hands would be adorned with the wedding rings.

"Can't wait for it too?" asks John softly.

Sherlock nods into John's hair.

"Can't help it," he admits. "I know that it's ridiculous and that we don't really need it but…" he pauses. "I want to belong to you, John," he whispers into John's ear. "Legally, lawfully. I surrendered my brain and heart to you and I want to surrender the rest."

"You love being Sherlock Holmes," whispers John quietly.

"I love you more," mumbles Sherlock. "It's just a bloody name, a trademark really. I can still work as Sherlock Holmes without being Sherlock Holmes anymore," he adds earnestly.

"Your parents might disagree," mumbles John.

"Daddy took Mummy's surname so he's not going to hold it against me. Mycroft might be against but he can go and fuck himself, I don't care. I don't particularly care either about Mummy's opinion on the matter even though I have no idea what it would be," he says. "Yours is the only opinion that matters, John."

"I think that you should at least consider hyphening it, for Josie's sake," answers John thoughtfully. "Husband," he adds with a hum.

In response Sherlock's cock twitches with interest.

"Oh, God, Sherlock," John groans. "I love you but…"

"I know," smiles Sherlock at him. "You're an old man, husband," he bites his lips when he feels another twitch. "Come on, lets check if a bath can bring you back to life," he murmurs.

"You know that this development has a potential of becoming problematic in our work, husband?" mumbles John.

"If I survived you pulling a rank around uniformed officers I can survive getting turned on every time I will call your or you will call me husband," he answers philosophically.


End file.
